The moments when giving birth is less about pregnancy and more about creation:
It’s when your mind is so full—brimming with thoughts and experiences that you must spread your legs push the fluid coated child of creativity. Cut the embilical cord that connects you between the bridge of cocksureness and fright.
We should’ve encouraged him more. I should have told him that I didn’t really want to bear his child but that I wanted him to have MINE. To have his own baby that I could be proud of and show around to all of my girlfriends. That I wanted him to seduce and make love to himself until the eruption was no longer satisfying, no longer an intense release, but a deep pain. I wanted this child to be a part of him so that it would hurt to separate it from his own flesh.
I didn’t encourage him as much in those last days. I grew tired of feeling like I was the only one nourishing his child. It was as if he didn’t care about the development if its fingers and toes. Maybe I didn’t care either. I was the one with the cigarette sitting too close and letting the embrio inhale my demise. But there isn’t a day that I don’t consider his woes of child-bearing. I injected him with fertility shots everyday. I prayed that he would be able to create something so deep inside of him that no matter how much I cried for attention, he would shut me out and worry about that baby inside of him. It was what I wanted. It is what separates boys from fathers.
Those emotions that I now see deep seated in his eyes. A brown and fiery amber; the color of translucent autumn leaves resting on the thin and slick surface of a lazy fresh body of water. But how much encouragement is too much? Would it soon make me the friend telling the teenmom to “have the baby”?
There is one thing that is true about creation: It is a girl, it is a bond, and an emerging force of power so great that nothing can keep it from its fruition.
In order for the fruit to be sweet, it should have the time to fully ripen. It must be thourouly tested through trial and error. It must be looked at with a loving and inquisitive eye. One must not pluck it off too soon — in attemps to keep only the finest fruits.
Prematurity is a sad thing. And though we will never say it; we were always scared of having a premature child.