I am sitting on the floor of our apartment. The zabuton cushion is flat beneath me. The kettle is humming a low, wet note. Outside, a neighbor’s wind chime ( furin ) clinks in the humid August air. And inside me, a second life is doing the strange, quiet calculus of deciding when to enter the world.
Right now, as I type this, the baby is doing somersaults. A foot—or maybe an elbow—is dragging across my right rib. I am drinking barley tea ( mugicha ) which is supposedly cooling for the blood. I am watching the shadows grow long on the tatami mats. Just before the birth again- Japan- Pregnant- U...
But this time? Just before the birth again, there is no sprint. I am sitting on the floor of our apartment
I remember the pain of the first birth. I remember the moment the contractions stopped being “waves” and started being a house falling on my spine. I remember the kanji on the hospital wall that I couldn’t read, and the nurse who spoke only Japanese, and the terrifying moment when I realized I had to translate my own moans. Outside, a neighbor’s wind chime ( furin )
I also know that my toddler will be waiting at home. He will be eating okonomiyaki with his grandmother. He will look up when I walk through the door and say, “ Okaeri ” (Welcome home) before he even looks at the baby.