free writing #2 | expecting
Finally alone for the day, she traced the topography of her stomach and revelled in its smoothness, only momentarily interrupted by the small indent of her belly button. Often times at night, whilst lying beside the crooked frame of her husband, she would concentrate on the tenuous rise and fall of her chest and imagine a thousand workers feverishly pushing her diaphragm up and down with each breath. It seemed almost inexorable to her, a laborious insistence for survival, a divine prerogative. In a matter of months, she would be led by the wrists into motherhood. She would have to sport joggers and join the ranks of womb-weary women, bellicose birth-givers, each working their little diaphragm minions to death. She shook her head. No, she wouldn’t be one of those women. She would love the child the way a bird-watcher stays fixated on the Nordmann’s Greenshank a metre away. It would be as beautiful and clerical as noting a rare species on an identification sheet.