a letter to my unborn daughter
© 1999 Devon Koren

i lay awake and my stomach retaliates. not because of the all too familiar morning sickness my hormones plagued me with the majority of my first trimester, leaving a spectacle of broken blood vessels across my checks from the violence of vomiting, but instead because of the little girl swarming inside who has decided she wants to grow up to become quarterback and is playing line-back offensive with my intestines. when i lay on my right side, the mattress pushes against one side of the immense bulge, and i place my hand on the other side of my belly to feel an orchestra of flailing limbs trembling beneath, arms and legs tuning up for that symphony of life, dotted with sharps and flats and crescendos... "where's the sheet music, momma?" she asks me, through the warbling, water-logged walls of my womb. "where's the composition?" ah aislin, this is a melody you have to make up on your own as you go along, this is a song where you must keep your own time. in composition, one must always accept a great deal of responsibility; there is much work to be done, and the margin for error is great - but nothing is impossible, and there is nothing that can't be done. if you can dream it, you can become it, my darling, and while i can't give you even the simplest tune to start out with, i can hand you these blank sheets of paper and this ink, my blood. and i can start the metronome for you - a simple heartbeat. yours harmonizes in double time with the steady, awkward beat of my own.