If I cry it means I’m guilty. If I cry it means I miss my daughter. I will want to be with her. And I can’t now. So I won’t cry. I won’t
I
‘m scared of this thing called Life.
My youth is a distant blur; memories hover in cloud formation, like sagging balloons.
I can’t look back. Not at the happier times and not at the sadder times. If I look at the happy times, I may feel nostalgia. I may feel longing, a pull for the joy of youth and for the freedom of innocence. I won’t look. I won’t turn around. I won’t think. I won’t feel.
I give birth to my oldest child. She’s a miracle of pink cheeks and feathered hair. Of perfect fingernails and velvet skin. I’m alone with her in the hospital. It’s late and quiet. I watch her sleeping. Eyes quivering under closed lids. I want to cry, but I don’t.
Tears sting behind tired eyes as feelings of gratitude and disbelief wash over me, as the weight of the new responsibility settles in. I swallow. I blink and look away from the enormity of the moment. The delight of new motherhood. The joy of a newborn girl. The fear of rising to the challenge. If I cry it means it’s real. If I cry I may never stop. So I hold her a little tighter and I don’t cry.
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