From Up Here

From up here, across the street, I can hear the party. Voices waft in the late summer air. Sweat trickles down my back. I’m staying overnight in this Airbnb. Booked it last minute, didn’t have a choice. Home soon, I think as I stroke my curved stomach, arched full like the moon in this ink-blue light. Softly, I whisper: “Baby, tomorrow we’re heading home.”

From up here, across the street, I can see two empty flats. The lights are on, but there’s nobody home. I will them to arrive, but no one comes. One room is painted red. The flat above has purple walls. When I arrived here from the hospital all three flats were empty. Months ago, when I discovered I was pregnant, my husband said, “It is extraordinary, they said you were sterile”. Inside, my fullness glowed.

From up here, across the street, I notice the party is buzzing. A couple dance. Cheek to cheek. Hands on shoulders, joined in what looks like love. Earlier, when I went to the toilet, I saw I was bleeding. The doctor warned me “You may bleed a little.”

From up here, across the street, I spot a picture in the red flat, possibly a portrait, on the wall. I feel my baby kicking, his feet through my skin. The push of life within me. I think of how today I went into the hospital with two. The nurses wanted me to see a psychologist, but I told them: “Let the psychologist help the women going home with nothing. I’m leaving with one.” I spoke so calmly they stopped asking.

From up here, across the street, the lamp flickers in the purple flat. It goes on and off erratically, the room flips from obscurity to light. I remember the hospital bed, the screen with the twins, both of them moving in blurred black shadows. The doctor gave the injection and then one stopped. The stillness felt so long.

From Up Here

From up here, across the street, I spy a woman carrying a cake with candles. At the party, everyone starts singing "Happy Birthday." I want to shout out: "Louder!" I cannot explain why but I want them to sing so loud their voices drown out everything. At the same time I want to make those people sit, sit like they are numbed and be silent.

From up here, across the street, I imagine a woman at the party. In the corner, she weeps and I catch her tears, and hang them in the sky like stars. They illuminate my vast, hollow darkness. Home soon, I think as I stroke my curved stomach, arched full like the moon in this ink-blue light. Softly, I whisper: “Baby, tomorrow we’re heading home.”