June, Again

There is so much here, that didn’t used to be.

If you were to ask me then, it would never be okay. But then again, that was the very beginning. I could tell her now, that there are more and more moments it just is — not okay, per se, but somehow, you keep moving.

I would tell her that, at least at first, it blooms from a place in your chest that you didn’t know could be so heavy, and so hollow. That your organs shift to make space for a fathomless space. That it spreads through the snake of intestines, prickling at the tips of your ribs, which, despite everything, continue to protect something so seemingly useless — because your heart doesn’t work the same as it used to. It is simply a thing that beats on. You didn’t ask it to do that.

I should warn her, that everything keeps moving.

This late June heat is familiar. As we walk down a street with no street lights, we cannot help but to go slowly. The evening has cooled, the air somehow soft, your daughter, wrapped tightly to your chest, is breathing slowly in that loud, unknowing way when tiny lungs are just learning how to hold those first expansions. Side by side, our strides offset, one of yours for three of mine. The stars brighten above as the three of us find our way home.

There is so much here, that didn’t used to be.