At a red light, I notice three women sitting together on a playground bench. Talking and
eating snacks. I’ve read articles on folic acid, breast pumps, getting rid of stretch marks, room
monitors, car seats, toddler sippy cups. I would have chosen Whole Earth baby food and 100%
cotton crib sheets, and I know that you don’t give a baby honey. I’d join them but for their watchful eyes, and ready, set, go—if their child swung too high on a swing; if in the momentum
of the merry-go-round, they leaned back too far, their head close to the ground and eyes looking
up at the sky. None of the children playing would be mine. I brandished the blade-sharp thought:
Of course a child wanted to be born to you; you would make a great mother, Ryn had said.
Those helpless words. The car behind me beeps, and I rev through the intersection. I have a half dozen tulip bulbs from the nursery in plastic cups on the passenger seat. Almost Easter; springtime.
I know I should plant something.