“
I ask Ben why he loves me —the
loudest refrain of our marriage
not too thin. Droplets come easily from the tiniest bottle you ever saw. Black girl
doesn’t want to eat, she won’t latch on. She needs her mother. In my head, there’s
a slowed refrain – I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. It’s only the first feeding, but I know how
delicate she is. She can’t not eat. Black girl will die quicker than an exhale. Every hour
and forty-five minutes I repeat. Sterilize. Mix. Feed. Tabby boy is strong, holds the
bottle with both paws. The symmetrical spots up his belly and his appetite spur me
on. His eyes won’t open for a few days yet. Baby girl struggles, makes a sound that
feels like someone is pulling my spine out of pinky toe. She cannot die on me. I can’t,
I can’t, I can’t. I try making the formula a bit thicker, mixing it thinner, cuddling her
body close with my hand, giving her space, and finally placing her next to her brother
as he drinks. She moves with him and finally fights for the nipple herself. I wish I had
a multi-nippled bottle so feeding time felt more realistic.
Together, they still fit in my hands.
I doubt my ability to mother because I’ve never done it before.
***
I feel like Tyler Durden in Fight Club – time unspools and winds itself
backward, existence thins to the size of a hair. But I am considerably less cool and
covered in formula. I’ve stopped washing my hair, opting for practical braids like I
should live on the prairie a hundred years ago. A few days in feel like twenty. Black
girl doesn’t eat as much as her brother, but she’s trying. I clean their faces, tummies,
and behinds with Huggies wipes. They cannot defecate or urinate on their own yet.
They weigh eight ounces together yet their smells sour the room. H