The silence and stillness of my empty apartment almost makes the air seem ablaze.
Some days, I clean. Others, I eat chips and salsa, and when a chunk of salsa lands on my belly, I’ll just shrug and use the next chip to scrape it off.
But on days like today, I am waiting.
I wait for life and change.
Any first-time mother would understand. I try to keep busy with work, teaching people’s children, patiently waiting for my own to enter my life. I try to keep track of days and time, but it all seems trivial. I brace myself for an unknown.
Some days, the tiny blue clothes and blankets stockpiled in our spare bedroom mount to nothing, as if my body is misleading me and nothing in my life will really change. There is almost a fear of this- a terror of expectancy, like trying not to get your hopes up about something you want to occur, as if seconds or hours could be slowed or halted. The encompassing anxiety of ineptitude looms also. I am afraid that, having been thrust into motherhood with no pre-determination or insight, that I will not be good enough, that I won’t know what to do, that I won’t be able to nurture a baby into a man who will love me or thank me or want me around. And how would I contradict him if he didn’t? I felt those same things towards him at the beginning.
Ineptitude suppresses me, feelings surpass me, words disappoint me. Two months of time stand between me and a me I have never known. They seem like miles, lined with shade, obscure in some areas and clear in others. I can see them on paper, but they are invisible in air.
Time is not known for its heavy feet.