Image: dragonfly damselfly
The bitter gun-mental taste of blood in my mouth. My hands automatically flew to my protruding stomach – had the fetus been damaged?
“The fetus,” Jeff yelled this morning, “Damn it when are you going to call her the baby?”
Even the backlit sonogram, revealing gender, could not shake my detachment from the umbilical cord which undoubtedly bound us.
For me, all an anechdoche; disconnected emotions and feelings; a conversation of layered nonsense.
All Jeff could talk of. Fix up the attic as a nursery. Names and meanings. Supplies. I’d half-listen, my mind fidgeting. His words held no resonance. This was his baby, his girl.
I escaped Jeff’s obsession in my skiff. On the turning tide, on sleety grey afternoons, heaving towards Prichard’s Point, close to breakers at Fiddler’s Cove. Row til my muscles squealed like the oars in the oarlocks.
Today, the wind freshened from the east, backing up the rollers against the beach, as I pulled towards home. A gust and a wave hit the skiff at the same time, sending the little boat into an outcrop of granite. I’d careened violently forward, slamming my face and my abdomen on the deck. The taste of blood.
Then, I became aware of a faint fluttering in my uterus, like the delicate wings of a damselfly beating. “Her transmigration,” I thought.
Another set of fascinating and challenging words provided by Yves in Wordle # 119.
@ taleweavering phylor