Mourning in the Morning
Inspired by Paula McLain’s Skylark, pgs 116-118
I mourn for the woman birthing a breech baby in the cellar as war-sirens scream under her. A woman birthing makes sounds only a birthing woman makes, and in a cellar as war-sirens scream, the echoes of these sounds braid like new friends in a soft moment never to be forgotten. It is a truth that great pain miracles its equal in great joy. That the ache of a broken heart miracles its equal into a heart growing seven sizes larger. It is also a truth that a body can feel loss that another body genesis-ed, that feels like its actual own loss, genesis-ed in its own cells twisted with the DNA of ancestors and stars that exploded before time was time. I mourn for the fickle, knob-kneed slipperyness of safety. That it is not guaranteed despite the body’s supple resilience for adaptation to suffering when safety shrinks or disappears or is stolen. I mourn for our inherent reactions of thievery, yet trust in the miracle-ing equality of hope-driven, solution-steady responses. That we can save each other. That jubilation rivers beneath mourning. That we don’t need to breathe under water to love each other. We love each other so we can breathe.
VANESSA SHIELDS 