#birth happened. that’s all i can say about it reliably. i know nothing else. it wasn’t until almost ten minutes later that i realized that i wasn’t in a hospital. it was either the pain or the joy. i hope it was the joy. it was the pain. i was told once that nothing hurts more than a paper cut. if i could invite the person who shared that insight with me to give #birth to a four-pound #child surrounded by the comfort of a newly-vacated first-class lounger on a #transatlantic redeye, without the benefit of either doctor or medication, i would do so. i shall leave it at that, however. the remaining two hours of the #flight into frankfurt were as uneventful as one can imagine the first two hours of life would be, surrounded by a crowd of apathetic strangers in a flying cigar, pressurized to the point of crushing the bones in a newly-formed skull. simply put, it was loud. quiet in comparison but mindlessly vibrant in the moment.
it was the best of times; it was the worst of times. time, in fact, stood still for her, peering longingly into the #water as it circled the drain. it was her custom to step out of the #bath and be dry by the time the #water had finally gurgled into the arcane pipework but she felt stunned to the point of inaction. time not only stood still but stopped her from standing at all. it was, after all, bedtime and darkness had fallen on the small cottage as #water poured hot and steaming from the antediluvian faucet, moistening porcelain and warming the cold room as bubbles and salts mixed with steam and caused apple blossoms to fill the december night as it would be in september. plunging up to her neck in the #water, splashing the #floor without even noticing, holding her breath and her head under the #water until it would appear to an observer that she was testing the limits of her lungs’ capacity to spontaneously cease respiration. she was typically calm. it was different this time. calm had not given way to mania, happiness, relief, or even their sad counterparts. this was shock. carla sat rigid watching the #clock on the wall #simply say seven minutes past eight, #morning or evening making no difference, realizing only after minutes’ contemplation that the #clock itself had no power to move and was stuck, much like carla herself. it was that #morning that gin had left her. left in the conclusive sense, that is, not in the leaving for work as they had done every day since their wedding. when carla awoke, gin was already dressed, sitting on the end of the bed, suitcase at her feet. she #simply said “i don’t need time. i don’t need to think. i know that it’s over. #please try to #survive without me. i won’t stop loving you but i cannot stay.”
there was a girl. an average girl. for a princess, that is. so not so average. but she looked fairly normal, a little tall, curly #black #hair, surprisingly foreign. amazing that her #father didn’t suspect her mother of having an affair with the #tailor. but that’s a story for another day altogether. they raised her as their own and her mother said nothing about it at all. her #father quietly had the #tailor dropped in the #river behind the castle without anyone really noticing except that the quality of the suits in the city was definitely at an all time low. but nobody said anything about it at all.
echoes of selves.
[ or ]
history through eyes of glass.