Zikora

It was my father who destroyed, and it was my mother I blamed for the ruins left behind.

Some kindnesses you do not ever forget. You carry them to your grave, held warmly somewhere, brought up and savored from time to time.

I didn’t cry; crying seemed too ordinary for this moment.

Nature must not want humans to reproduce, otherwise birthing would be easy, even enjoyable: babies would easily slip out, and mothers would remain unmarked and whole, merely blessed by having bestowed life.

I thought that here in this delivery room we are reduced, briefly and brutishly, to the animals we truly are.

How you imagine something will be is always worse than how it actually ends up being,

Now I was blaming myself. I was bearing the responsibility of a full-grown man.

Nature demanded so much of the woman and so little of the man.

I read somewhere that love was about this, the nuggets of knowledge about our beloved that we so fluently hold.

Time spent on remembering, time lost on remembering.

“It’s funny how pregnancy is like body hair. We scrub and scrape our armpits and upper lip and legs because we hate to have hair there. Then we pamper and treat the hair on our heads because we love hair there. But it’s all hair. It’s the wanting that makes the difference.”