How I birthed

First the legs, in a sudden fury, jerking the whole, motionless right-side, at first, unheard, silent for too long, feeling all the feels, all the pains and names a birth could give, unherd-ing bit by bit, as if body-packs were now wolf-packs howling, asking for their names.

And I named it legged-two, strength-in-weaklings-muscled, light-heavy-foot, raced whispers down the spine, towards the right, banqueting yawns-reflexes, curling-knee as if in the right bend.

Then, slowly, steadily the right arm came. You would have expected some other limbs, mid-body, the left leg -

numbed is only the feel, cascading over your view:

Ocean-deafened song of the Sirens

Infused with its spit coming to consciousness

So, the right hand and arm, soft, you wouldn't look at them, you'd carry them as you'd carry an animal, soft and unconscious, little memory left, muscle deprived, buried into bone quakes, ebbing the vessels with blood, flowing in pale skin, bone rocks, rapids of translucent invitations to life and movement

The face came all together, on both sides, tongue stretched outside just a bit of it, clogged between cries stretched inside - sounds, muffled as they were, showed the importance of place: inside-out/

All the insatiable heart and strength unfurling

Space can be void to find its meaning, its function

You co-exist as part of it

You could let go through the umbilical cord, yet you don't

You hang on to the humanity of the act

The act of giving birth

Its pains; it pains

You fight; you fight it -

you ask why love can prove so hard,

why sacrifice is on a Cross

This is how I birthed

My father

This is how you can birth

(anyone else)

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I walk among the fibres of my memories,

gently picking up the remains of

a human touch, a glance that too-often-happened,

an imagined discussion that raised an eyebrow

when the wind blew my mind,

a replayed event that played its role

once and for all

(...)

Photo by Alex Lion on Unsplash

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To Hub

Saying goodbye

when I wasn't there but I was

can be the hardest

what would I say:

"You couldn't have chosen a more beautiful day to go,"

I found myself saying towards the end of it,

just because I'm assuming you'd continue to enjoy everything over there.

It wasn't the same for Mom, I remember - the world stopped, literally stopped,

connections dropped for a good few hours, just because they had to,

after all, it was Mom, my mom silencing death,

making us understand the dread creeping over for a good few years.

Because in some moments we would never cope with you leaving.

In some others we would see it as the natural course of things.

You'd remember everything contrary to your last few years

You'd joke as you often did leaving God to laugh at your jokes

He'd understand without us explaining them to Him

Sure, He would not always agree with you or you with Him

But, still - one of the shortest sentences for one of the longest lives

touching the lives of others, making a mission of it:

You'd be sure to give all the arguments for why things happen,

how lives get lived,

how people adjust to different cultures, situations

and how they choose and love

each other.

I hope I'll grow into that fine adult who would know, find

what we are meant to

find here and then there

and understand not everything is up to us

except for the Love.

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