novel unbegun

half-loaf rising

lighthouse northward

and anchor south.

[rachel richardson]

It's a perfect afternoon. The second day we know of you. I'm walking home from the art center, pushing your older sister ahead of us. She hefts a crinkled plastic cup up and over the edge of the stroller, chuckles her intoxicating baby laugh, flings the cup up and away. I wheel around, grab the cup, hand it back to her, and we begin again. 

We fly down the sidewalk to the music of her giggling, the late afternoon fall sun dappling the sidewalk, a talon of marigold cutting through the trees to land across her cornsilk hair. I am thinking of you, and thinking of her, wondering how the two of you will be together, trying to imagine the reality of you here with us in just a handful of months, by late spring or early summer. 

The due date calculator I pulled up, still in shock when holding Miriam for a nap and realizing I was late, told me you would be incoming at the end of May, the same month I was born. Maybe early June, if you drag your feet like your sister. A Gemini, to complete our quartet. Your father is a Leo, I am a Taurus, your sister is a cavorting Cancer crab. Fire, earth, water, and now air.

Seeing the second line darken on the test- just a shade deeper than nothing- it mended me. Made me a penitent, a mystic, a prophet feasting on locusts. I was Moses, walking away from the burning bush. I was Joan of Arc, falling to the floor after her vision. I was certain I would never get pregnant without medical intervention, had given up on ever having a surprise this sweet. And here you were anyway, not knowing any of this.

The day we found out about you, your father was in shock. But late that night he wrapped his arms around me, put a hand over you, kissed my belly where you grew, and said We love you, little bug. We would love to meet you. 

Not even my dreams tipped me off to your existence. It was my lack of pain that let me know. I realized that this was the first day I was supposed to be hurting, and baby, I didn't hurt. Your gift to me, your annunciation, bringing the good news of yourself. 

When your father first found out, he said, Here we go again. His eyes widened, nervous. 

I felt only joy. 

The week after my first appointment, I heard the ding on my phone and got up, walked to the kitchen in the predawn dark. I had sworn I would wait til Ivan woke up before opening the lab report, but instead I clicked on it, one last secret to savor in those few minutes alone. I knew already, felt it in my bones the moment I first suspected you were with me, but I smiled anyway when I saw Female. One second daughter recognizing another. 

The day we first found out about you, I drove to your grandmother's house. I wasn't ready to tell anyone yet, but something about a positive pregnancy test pulls you towards your mother like the tide rising toward the moon. 

When we pulled onto her street, I saw a doe leaping lightly off her lawn. I hefted Miriam out of the car and watched her face, thrilled when she pointed. I assumed she was only seeing the deer, but when I looked back I saw the two small fawns just stepping carefully out of the dappled tree-shadow, following her into the light.

See you in the spring, little one. We're waiting for you.

Love, Mom