And with the water, my heart

There are peaches growing on the neighbor's tree. All these years and I hadn't noticed them, but today they are there: plump and golden-bottomed. I can't imagine that they're sweet. Brooklyn peaches--who ever heard of such a thing?

But still I want them. If I close my eyes, I can smell them. Close them a bit longer, and I can maybe even taste them.

I also see: a blue ribbon tied to the sliding glass door, a glass of iced coconut juice, a ring on the wood beneath the glass, a vase with flowers, the ceiling fan going forever around. All this from my bed, where I've been two days now on doctor's orders.

Wednesday night it rained so hard, raining and raining, and the sliding door was open, and I was dreaming of all the rain falling, and it was falling still. At almost dawn, I woke up, and I knew my water had broken. All that wild rain. Broken. Water.

We had just found out that I'm carrying a boy, have been carrying him for twenty weeks; found out that he has a strong spine and two beautiful femurs and a perfect brain, and then this: this which has me laid up in bed begging for prayers.

Outside now, the sun is starting to set. Nights, I've found, are hardest, especially after Eva has gone to bed, and I don't have her laughter to make me forget. Or make me remember. To accompany me. To calm me.

Rain on glass. A late summer storm. Clouds moving in and away and in again. The smell of peaches, the pinking of the sky. Send love our way. Send love. Love.