Micrometers Thick

You are micrometers thick, falling but not propelled by gravity. Growing in the way that dividing is growing. Like me plus you divided by two equals one.

One family, three souls, two bodies. 

You are micrometers thick, and yet you are all at once connected to us and intact with a world beyond our own. We’ve waited through weeks of curiosity, months of standing idly by, praying each cramp is a sign.

We are waiting. Forever waiting for everyone to arrive.

You are micrometers thick and yet I owe you something. Commitment, fortitude, gratitude. Everything. I owe you a million reasons why we decided to make you but we only have one, my little poppy seed. 

You were missing. 

You are micrometers thick, and yet you have already filled the gaps in our lives, caulked the cracks, and puttied the holes. We overflow now with hope. You are seconds away from nothing.

You are already everything.

You are micrometers thick, and yet everything makes room for you, makes me nauseous, makes me pee all the time. But we’re making room. Me and the ovaries and the intestines and the bladder and the womb. Perhaps that’s how our lives will make space for you. 

Ever opening, forming itself around you.

As for us, we are waiting.

We are googling.

We are becoming.

We are cheap holograms of parents, waiting to be made real.