très riches heures vi
that thing you do, the one with your mouth when you are thinking, he said, today. what a sharp little noticer, i thought. i like to notice small things too: in february i like to notice the first green, so easily buried, or the length of the days as they increase in minutes. or the curtain round the hospital bed which had watercolour style images of places around the town. looking at them, i wondered at the person who thought to do this, at who else was looking even then as i did, who might also see what i saw. beyond the curtain people talked and laughed, babies cried, and i waited for whatever was going to happen, alone.
right before i was sick, i was thinking that this was the closest to dying i had yet been, and the thought did not feel dramatic, or frightening, or even a distraction from the work. i noticed it as i noticed the watercolour of the norman church, the red lion, the other little familiar landmarks, with a detached sense of curiosity, and then my stomach turned itself inside and out to expel the nothing i’d eaten since monday lunchtime, and then i noticed that, too.
afterwards a nurse told me that this always happens; it’s called transition, and it marks the beginning of the birth. sure enough, when i’d stopped retching some internal clock marked the time and then i was an animal, all flesh and some blood, and i hissed i fucking told you so as they ran me on the gurney to the room where moments later, i held my second child.
o month of small and careful noticing, godspeed me through your doorway, let me pass, retching and limping, bloody and moving through your gate into spring. i am an animal like any other, i’m as close to dying as i’ve ever been, i’m turning inside out looking for the green (there? there.) and hoping, i’m curious and looking.
that thing you do, that one, with your mouth when you are thinking, he said: that one — i like it, maybe a lot.