I would think, after talking to people that aren’t really there for so many years, that I would start listening to what they have to say.
but I don’t.

there’s my daughter sitting there, across from me at our kitchen table. We’re having the conversation…about why she shouldn’t have sex. I watched Fast Times at Ridgemont High last night; I’m thinking about this as her eyes shift up and to the right, fixated on a spot just beyond my head. I stare at the corner of her eye, where she sees me, where the stage is set under her feet, and get up. I walk around the island in the kitchen open a drawer and now she’s curious. I return, look at her, and place a pair of metal tongs on the battlefield between us.

I say nothing.
Why? Because the scene is set in my own kitchen, the same lighting the same island. My best friend’s mom was there for me when I discovered that there was another hole. Mom managed to ask if I had any questions. I looked at her; my own mother sitting in the other room watching her American Dreams on DVD.

I’m not pregnant, but I imagine healing the womb child before it breaks free. It’s a problem that keeps reoccurring – motherhood.

And no one is ever going to get it quite right.