Between Tomorrow and Tomorrow
Mom finishes her kung pow chicken and finds no fortune in the cookie. Then the labor pains kick in all over her like an other worldly chain reaction of earthquakes that will not be stopped. She gives birth right there in the food court.
The stomach tightens and sinks.
The heart and lungs follow.
It’s a confounding reaction to a receipt of affection.
It’s familiar, and, therefore, oddly comforting.
But familiarity can be a curse.
A cursed reminder of what once went wrong when you were just trying to do things right this time.
This time it’ll be different, you say.
Why? You’re different, but what are you doing differently?