you are here

Every morning she looks at her bellybutton over the arch of abdomen. It has been slowly disappearing over the past few months, flattening out to match the curvature of her stomach. It’s almost a perfect arc now. Where there used to be an indentation, her connection to her own mother, there is a shiny smear of scar tissue. Every morning she runs her fingers over the spot and thinks, you are here.
She remembers the first fish tail turn it made inside her, startling her. She had drawn a sharp breath and sat down in her chair in front of the blackboard. She’s not sure how long ago that was. Long enough that she has bought new jeans, longer shirts and dressed with several seams in the interim. She knows enough now to be able to locate the barb of its feet, the slight protrusion of its head. She monitors where it sits inside her as she sits at her desk correcting essays and exams. At night she feels it move, turning so its back is to the bed as she lies on her side. She thinks, you are here.
She dreams about being in labor. Sometimes she dreams that it just walks out of her and crawls into her arms. Sometimes she dreams she has lost it, and that her breasts are leaking from lack of use. Sometimes she dreams that its father is holding it. From those dreams she is invariably woken by an unusually violent kick. She opens her eyes and thinks, you are here.