Day One

(For my mother, who died of Alzheimer’s Disease on 7/17/2020)

There’s a certain comfort to being

In the dark, encased, entombed, comforted.

Not knowing where I’ve come from,

or where I’m going, or what it will be like

when I get there.

The constant beat of her heart, her

lungs, her liver, working rhythmodically

spasmodically, sustaining life for her,

for me

No one told me she is a She

But I knew

Only She could be this strong

this gentle, this all encompassing

What will she look like when I finally see her?

What will I say when I finally meet her?

Surely she’ll think I am the stars,

the moon, the sky, the skyline –

her reason to live,

her reason to die,

just as she is mine.

Suddenly, a horizontal sliver of light

Movement of shadows

And violently bright specters,

harsh noises, at pitches too piercing

for my yet amniotic fluid filled ears

Hands grapple with my slippery

minutes new skin, bit by oxygen

For the first time

This stings

I cry

Where is she?

I cannot see.

I cry

A lump of woman flesh on the operating table

Surely that’s not her

No embrace to be felt

A doctor’s comparatively cold hands

to the warm embrace in which I was encased

I begin to think twice--

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea

But what to do?

With no power to know yet where I

come from or why, and no way to return…

I soldier forward, 11 minutes new:

Into the bright light of

Day One