and she is in no position to control that.
Thread pinched between excited fingers. Needle accepts thread without complaint. Thread tied to needle. Body in wait. Head in wait. Ingrid in wait. Head positioned above body in ghostly detachment. Brought closer. Head kisses body. Body kisses head. Ingrid bows and kisses both. The weaving needle trails the thread, binding via its passage. Ingrid sews tight stitches. Stitch sitting against stitch sitting against stitch. The crowd of ordered stitches form a strengthening bond. Space between each stitch must be eradicated. Thread is pulled. Head tightens. Straightens. Joining the body in greater unity with each needle weave. Her breath trails thin wisps of carbon dioxide from pursed lips lost in concentration. A circle of stitches destined to meet, heralding new life. Circle formed. Thread sits against thread. Between the kiss of Ingrid’s thumb and pointer emerges the needle. The trail of thread is severed with Ingrid’s gentle teeth. Two lengths of thread now exist. One length encircles the spool. The other is frozen in the stitching’s complex path. The spool is placed aside. The thread sprouting from the stitching’s complexity is tied off. Baby is born.
Joyful tears climb Ingrid. Each seeks their passage out. Manifesting as irritation in the eyes before finding their escape and traveling downward. Exploring the length of her nose and dripping like kisses upon the newborn. Ingrid shakes with emotion. Desperate to cradle the baby in crossed arms, but terrified of causing harm. Instead she brushes her fingers over its innocent face. The texture of the wool in this moment will never be forgotten. Lowered lips press down on its belly. Her ear replaces the lips and listens to imagined heartbeats. Through jittering seizures of excitement, Ingrid’s hands lift the new life.
Ingrid supports the baby’s weight and draws it toward her, pressing it into her chest, feeding it with her heartbeat. Understanding her life is bound by this new addition, too overwhelming to describe. This moment exists for no one but the two. Rollo cannot be introduced yet. He must remain outside of this experience until the baby understands Ingrid as his mother. There is too much Ingrid wants to feel before outsiders are permitted to interfere. Since the idea of the baby found form within her, the moment of birth is one Ingrid has afforded a great deal of importance to. Significance can be difficult to experience, and when one does, it must be held in place and experienced fully.
…
The numbers are ticking in frenzied insect clicks. Rollo snaps away from his abjection and watches the display. His heart quickens to match the barrage of clicks and feeds his body with panic. A final change has occurred. A change too powerful for the numbers to translate. Rollo knows the chaos of these numbers means the baby has arrived. Why has he not been told? What properties of the fort have altered to accommodate this new addition? How does it know?
…
The darkness of this night belongs to Ingrid and her child. In the limbo between wake and sleep, she melts into the bed. The baby rests facedown on her chest, moving up and down in tandem with the slow breath of contentment. Sleep does not have a place in this moment. Not for Ingrid. This is the first night between the two and it must be experienced. Remembered. Drawn out in caramel trails that refuse to break.
“I am your mother. You are my child. We are separate but we are one. I beat the heart you cannot. I see that which your eyes cannot. I hear your voice where no sound exists. I hear what you long to hear. I pass what you need through my body and give it to you in untold abundance. You are the enormity of me. The enormity that alone, I cannot be. Thank you for being. Thank you for allowing my hand to guide yours.”
She fights the sleep that arrives, understanding the fight cannot last. Understanding she is now sleeping for him.
Rollo can
Thread pinched between excited fingers. Needle accepts thread without complaint. Thread tied to needle. Body in wait. Head in wait. Ingrid in wait. Head positioned above body in ghostly detachment. Brought closer. Head kisses body. Body kisses head. Ingrid bows and kisses both. The weaving needle trails the thread, binding via its passage. Ingrid sews tight stitches. Stitch sitting against stitch sitting against stitch. The crowd of ordered stitches form a strengthening bond. Space between each stitch must be eradicated. Thread is pulled. Head tightens. Straightens. Joining the body in greater unity with each needle weave. Her breath trails thin wisps of carbon dioxide from pursed lips lost in concentration. A circle of stitches destined to meet, heralding new life. Circle formed. Thread sits against thread. Between the kiss of Ingrid’s thumb and pointer emerges the needle. The trail of thread is severed with Ingrid’s gentle teeth. Two lengths of thread now exist. One length encircles the spool. The other is frozen in the stitching’s complex path. The spool is placed aside. The thread sprouting from the stitching’s complexity is tied off. Baby is born.
Joyful tears climb Ingrid. Each seeks their passage out. Manifesting as irritation in the eyes before finding their escape and traveling downward. Exploring the length of her nose and dripping like kisses upon the newborn. Ingrid shakes with emotion. Desperate to cradle the baby in crossed arms, but terrified of causing harm. Instead she brushes her fingers over its innocent face. The texture of the wool in this moment will never be forgotten. Lowered lips press down on its belly. Her ear replaces the lips and listens to imagined heartbeats. Through jittering seizures of excitement, Ingrid’s hands lift the new life.
Ingrid supports the baby’s weight and draws it toward her, pressing it into her chest, feeding it with her heartbeat. Understanding her life is bound by this new addition, too overwhelming to describe. This moment exists for no one but the two. Rollo cannot be introduced yet. He must remain outside of this experience until the baby understands Ingrid as his mother. There is too much Ingrid wants to feel before outsiders are permitted to interfere. Since the idea of the baby found form within her, the moment of birth is one Ingrid has afforded a great deal of importance to. Significance can be difficult to experience, and when one does, it must be held in place and experienced fully.
…
The numbers are ticking in frenzied insect clicks. Rollo snaps away from his abjection and watches the display. His heart quickens to match the barrage of clicks and feeds his body with panic. A final change has occurred. A change too powerful for the numbers to translate. Rollo knows the chaos of these numbers means the baby has arrived. Why has he not been told? What properties of the fort have altered to accommodate this new addition? How does it know?
…
The darkness of this night belongs to Ingrid and her child. In the limbo between wake and sleep, she melts into the bed. The baby rests facedown on her chest, moving up and down in tandem with the slow breath of contentment. Sleep does not have a place in this moment. Not for Ingrid. This is the first night between the two and it must be experienced. Remembered. Drawn out in caramel trails that refuse to break.
“I am your mother. You are my child. We are separate but we are one. I beat the heart you cannot. I see that which your eyes cannot. I hear your voice where no sound exists. I hear what you long to hear. I pass what you need through my body and give it to you in untold abundance. You are the enormity of me. The enormity that alone, I cannot be. Thank you for being. Thank you for allowing my hand to guide yours.”
She fights the sleep that arrives, understanding the fight cannot last. Understanding she is now sleeping for him.
Rollo can
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