She was stuck in the best kind of way. At the corner end of the café counter, the warmth of the coffee machine complementing the cool water she sipped. The smell of fresh macadamia muffins and vegetable frittata straight out the oven wafted around her morning and she relaxed her shoulders. The rain fell from the sky, forcing her to look out the window and calculate just how wet she would get if she tried to walk to the car. Dare she leave? She rested her hand on the mighty movements of limbs rolling around in her overconfident belly, the rise and fall of her fingers as each one felt the full force of a tiny human. Leaning back into her cushioned chair she sat, still and quiet.
Dare she leave, when she was stuck in the best kind of way?
It wasn’t that she necessarily missed wine; the coursing of red and white courage poising through her blood stream, making waves of excited energy or smoothing her out like a saxophone player with three day growth and a cheeky grin.
No. She’d hardly thought about it all really.
She walked through halls of paintings leaning against walls. The casualty of their placement gave her permission to run her fingers along the canvas, feel the lumps of paint, the strokes of another person’s vision. Pausing to circle images with her fingertips and stare into the eyes of the muse, she relaxed her shoulders and thought perhaps she too should try leaning against the wall, rather than hanging herself.
I wish I could bottle this feeling of calm; a peaceful escape from the pattern. Shrink me down and let me lay against the curved walls like a genie in a lamp.Tears well in waiting: for it to be over, for the haze to spread and the melancholy to rise. Let me lay against the curved walls of this calm, I will not take up space but rather be taken up; nestled in silence and awe at the feeling of your blissful, untainted existence that flows through my core.
She whistled to the world but it never echoed back.
The sounds of her surrounds fell silent, stealing her call.
She paused: checking for signals, sounds, vibrations.
The dust of hush allowed her just enough silence to hear herself.
She cupped her ears.
The thunder of her thoughts rolled deep into her belly.
She would never be alone, if she could hear herself think.
She wrote with her soul disguised as her ego. Her truths rolled out cloaked in rubber, bouncing pleasantly off people’s judgements. Had she’d been brave enough, her soul might have said ‘I’m crying’.
Instead of smiling.
But she wasn’t brave.
She woke; baby breath blowing gently on her cheek and tiny fingers reaching knowingly in the dark for the comfort of a mothers presence. Stiff as a board she remained so as not to wake him but instead to stare at him through the slits of her morning eyes. So still and so quiet she took a moment to embrace the lack of space his tiny body provided while in her bed, her feet cold and without a pillow, this tiny person, consuming her world.
He was her world.