At last the disorienting tumult of the strange jet lag wears off. I wake early, before the most oppressive heat has built itself across the grid and walk along the river in a hazy awareness. A life sheds itself from my insides, casts off into oblivion and leaves it to me to rebuild, again, again, again. My teeth have stopped hurting.
The little girl at the end of the cursor languishes. She should be grown by now, but malnourishment steals the years from her. I'm stealing the years from both of us. We do not have the choice to rebuild, to start anew elsewhere. I gave myself all the fertile soil I could find, was it not enough? We are withering under my thumb.
She writes to say if I have this baby, then I no longer have an out.
And it's unclear if she means it
as a blessing
or a curse.
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