Birth

Chapter One

Not the type that is covered in amniotic fluid.

Rebirth.

The door opened, the July wind gushed in as if it had been piling up against the other side of it. After that initial shock you get used to it, the wind. But because I know this is possibly the last time I will ever stand here, I do more than simply accustom to the weather. I really try to notice the surrounding of the old house that has been my home for eighteen years. I hear the tickle of the neighbour’s Quaking Aspen, the scrape of sun-crisped leaves being stirred along the concrete ground. I can’t help but think that soon none of this will seem so familiar. Soon it will only be a memory, and my memories always seem to fade. Sometimes I pick a moment, as mundane as any, and I tell myself that I will remember it in years to come. I still remember walking under a fall tree, staring up at the single brown leaf among a chalky grey sky.

But I don’t want to remember this moment. Not any more than I would like to remember my actual birth. C-section. Premature. Fifteen hour labour. At least that’s the tale my Mother likes to tell, usually inspired by some type of spirits. Who cares, I think when she divulges into the topic of birth. She knows I’m thinking it. It’s the look I make, the careless eye roll, the nonchalant yawn.

But she knows how to get back at me. She wraps her hand tighter around Micheal’s leg, sometimes she might even tiptoe her fingers up his thigh. It’s like playing a game of Chicken. I always lose, I can’t stand watching her and him. But I’ll win again soon, when it’s Tracy or Jessica or Caramel (I know right, that’s her actual name) laying in his bed, right up besides him. She’s never been too good at sharing, which is why I’ve never understood why she chose this lifestyle. I could think of anything better than this house and these people. I have thought of it, and it is this:

I let the wind ravish me while I contemplate my near journey. It’s hot, even hotter because it’s so humid. The clouds are dwarfing down on me. The only solace is the cool metal door knob that’s still tight in my fist. Will this be the last time I ever hold this door knob? But so what? I will find better door knobs. Bigger, and colder. Brass, crystal maybe. Oh, all the door knobs I will see, grasp, turn. All the doors I will step through. So many births and rebirths to come. Come wind, take my hand and lead the way, from here on out I am yours. I am,

The Nomad.