you remember the day you are born very clearly. or maybe you dont. it's okay, it doesnt matter. you know the story anyway.
so, the doctors tell your mother the news at least eleven months prior. she stands, uncertainty clawing inside her as her husband kisses her cheeks and tells her we're making a world. she wants to reply, she wants to scream. she has centuries of history left behind her. are we though? are we making a world or are we abandoning what we had?
she doesnt say anything. she smiles.
your mother had a life before you, you know. she had a life before you, one where she was a six year old holding on to her father as he took her to the district post office to collect the letters of her pen pal. another one, fourteen, when she let herself fall in love for the first time. the boy she loved had loved her too, but they never said anything.
a life before she married your father, a life before she put all of her life behind and opened her heart for a newer, terrifying one.
she got married when she was twenty. you dont know this.
you've never cared.
so, the doctors tell your mother the news eleven months prior. she laughs, she cries. she let's her life go to make place for you, and therefore
and that is why
you hold
that vacancy
in the middle
of your
palm,
you've never cared.
