By Bethany Jarmul
Even now she can barely jump two inches and doesn’t alternate feet when climbing stairs, but before, she wore ankle braces, couldn’t walk when she was supposed to, couldn’t crawl when she was supposed to, and before, she was a baby who cried unless I held her against my body like a human life raft in the throes of a violent sea, she the only thing keeping me alive, me the only thing keeping her alive, and before, she was a fetus with only one umbilical artery, growing alien arms and legs inside my body, and before, she was an embryo seeking a warm place to roost, and before, she was a dream her dad and I whispered as lamplight illuminated a test with a single pink line again, and before, she was an egg I carried inside me through college, through high school, during math, during spelling, when I learned to ride my purple bike, took my first steps into my dad’s hairy arms, learned how to say “Mama” with banana puree on my chin, when I was formed in my own mother’s womb, and before, she was an idea in God’s mind, running with the wind, her hair a golden banner billowing behind her.
