How the Eye Sees
We are all pregnant at the same time. Our skin stretched taut across our swollen bellies, fluid-heavy. We have not talked about the day it will happen. Instead, we smooth lotion into our skin and drink lemonade.
We are giving birth, all of us, on the same day. My delivery is easy. I don’t feel it, and it is over before I can see anything.
Afterward, we wait—mingle, it’s called—in a light-filled atrium. We drink lemonade. We all seem fine. Our abdomens are still stretched, remembering what used to be inside. Our shirts hang, limply, from our breasts. One of us had a C-section. It looks as if she has not yet given birth. She is sitting in a chair someone brought her. The diluted sun from the skylight at the top of the atrium catches on her brown, straight hair. The glossy shine of it stings my eyes.