Jessy Assy

they say

if you project a flashlight

on the bulge

of an expecting mother

the sensitivity

would cause

the little one

to move frantically

in an attempt

to shield its eyes

from the bright light.

 

I sit by a strange

olive tree

in a strange

house

and contemplate

if life too

could be that simple --

where unpleasantries could

be as easily avoided

as bright beams

of rejected refractions.

 

“We won’t do that,”

my husband retorts;

firm, fierce, offended.

“When he’s ready to move,

he’ll move.”

“We won’t make him.”

 

I put my feet up as

I carry on

with my work

methodically modifying manuscripts;

carefully calculating and counting

grades, grants, and growth patterns --

the hustle-bustle of this new life

having me wondering

if I could ever be lucky enough

to be too busy

to notice

how the pieces

don’t always

fit.

 

“We’re not hurting him,”

I object, adamant that

my pleas

won’t go

unnoticed.

“We’re just speeding up

the process.”

 

He gets up to

close the window --

slightly broken now

on one end

and letting in

a gust of

cool September breeze,

on the other.

 

“Things will be different

soon,” he says,

a resilient smile

on his face

as the olive branches

continue to sway

in the dark

weather,

nonchalantly

dancing with the

impending

rain.

“We’re going to need

to make a few adjustments,” he asserts

his voice

consistently

fading

with the gradual

light-bulb shimmer,

then eventual

total

blackout.

 

I reach for the flashlight

conveniently

stored away now

in a tiny wooden drawer

by the door,

and as I walk past the corridor

malicious thoughts

cross my mind

though I hurry myself

to make my way

into the bedroom.

 

a powerful thunder,

an indeterminate few minutes,

and a light kick

later,

I find myself

back in bed

curled up

with my husband

whose arm

now safely

rests on my

protruding belly; 

his lips beginning to curve

slyly as he confesses:

“I left the flashlight there

on purpose.”