your mother asks for grandchildren, again
nicole heneveld
She has no problem with you taking your time, really, no problem at all, so long as you remember
to wear your watch & to watch your mouth & to track the tick of the second hand & the traveling
of eggs by the baker’s dozen & to remember the degrees of separation—to separate the eggs, to
organize, divide, cling to the wall if you have to, wait for the arrival of something strange &
swimming, someone who spent a childhood doing backstroke or sidestroke or breaststroke so as
to make the caress Olympian—don’t forget: cooking time, the heat, the waiting, the anticipation;
don’t forget the possibility of failure or deformity; don’t forget your own sonogram with the
Warnings & the Option for Removal & the Debate over you & how your mother won the Debate;
don’t forget that she delivered you into life, &, if possible, you owe her another one, &, after all,
time is ticking & you ought to consider your legacy & your potential for love, for a brood of
children who’ll love you unconditionally, until you inevitably ruin them, because you are ruined
yourself & there is nothing to be done about that, nothing at all, except to save them from you
before they need saving, which is almost what you wish your mother had done; don’t forget the
blood & the cramping & the mood swings that send you into the kitchen to crack your eggs against
glass rims; don’t imagine a little girl with your mother’s blue eyes watching as the shells break,
wanting you to teach her how to bake & how to swim & how to tell time.
