she is sick with a cold. her eyes are rimmed in red, snot
drips across the space above her mouth, and she sneezes,
tiny baby sneezes, to which i reply, “bless you” or “salud,”
depending on which language i’m feeling more. yesterday
she sat on my lap and we watched cartoons together; we
were almost cuddling and i appreciated the physical atten-
tion. i like holding her close and feeling her baby warmth.
i don’t want to be a mother, not right now, but i finally
understand those who do, the ticking of an invisible clock
and the quiet pangs at the pit of the belly. there is some-
thing biologically pleasing about my ability to carry her
on my hip - a woman’s body was designed in mind for
this, with all the curvy shelves and softness and love
oozing in hyper-sensitive tears. she is sick with a cold
and i enjoy caring for her until her mother comes home.
