Spring

It’s spring. The birds outside chirp; my jasmine blooms and blooms in the harsh sun, opening new blossoms to greet me every morning; I sunbathe inside my own room thanks to its enormous, wide windows. Spring comes, and I’m alive again, I’m coddled, I’m calm. But then comes a moment when I’m drinking tea and spot, for a brief second, a pair of small eyes looking at me from the bottom of my cup. Spring comes and brings these ghosts with it. It comes, and the thought of motherhood sinks its teeth into me.

Glimpses of children follow me around. I conjure them in the oddest of places; in the bottom of my drawers, inside the cupboards of the kitchen, underneath my bed. Amid the leaves of my violets, tangling their roots and stems. I see flashes of children’s hands reaching out to me, feel a tugging on my skirt as I walk to the grocery store or cafe, only for me to gaze down and see it’s just a stray root. I see children’s heads peeking from the ends of hallways, looking for me, always looking for me, always needing me. And I’m always with my back turned, pretending not to notice.

Do all women have these phantom children haunting them, I wonder every year. Could it be a sign, I asked myself once, and accidentally spilled my tea all over myself. Am I mad, I also asked myself then, as I thought of the daughter I once believed I had—in a dream dreamed one scorching summer, in a room overlooking the sea.

In the quiet hum of early morning, I looked at her from above, admired her almost translucent eyelids as she slept. I trailed my fingers over her hair. Our breathing was synchronised without us even trying. I held her in my arms, settled her on the crook of my hips. How perfect women’s hips are for carrying children. I sang to her, and she sang back to me, a soft sound similar to the coos of a bird. Then came pictures of the busy city, of car-laden streets, street vendors shouting and car sirens. I was with everyone I ever loved. I held my daughter as all of them went forward, receding from me like ships into a fog. A moment later, my daughter somehow slipped from my hands. I let her walk on her own, or perhaps someone offered to hold her just for a moment, a mere moment, so I could catch my breath, and she ended up in the middle of a busy street.

The air disappeared from my lungs. My body moved on its own, toward her, but I was swept by a car before I could reach her little hands, which I imagine still search for me, will forever remain reaching, in that dream.

A child is an ache, a constant anxiety. The morning after I was aware of every child whose feet were a little too deep in the sea, whose hands were held by parents only loosely while crossing the street. I fear the possibility of ripping that comes with motherhood; of holding my heart in my hands, only for it to be taken from me by a momentary slip. You cannot collect yourself back into shape when the key part is missing.

Your hands. Your hands, M said. The hot tea had scalded my fingers, but I was too far elsewhere to notice.