Before Her Voice Was Air

Do you remember being a fetus?

Neither do I.

But once
I lived inside my mother.

I knew her first
without seeing her.

The sound of blood moving.
Her heart somewhere above me.

The strange underwater version
of her voice.

I wonder what laughter sounded like
from in there.

Whether it shook the water.

Whether sadness did too.

Whether I knew the difference.

When she walked,
the whole world moved.

When she slept,
I disappeared into her sleep.

I went everywhere she went
without knowing
there was anywhere else to go.

I had never seen light.

Never felt air
against my skin.

Never been alone.

I knew her
before I knew what a mother was.

Before I knew
there could be distance
between one body
and another.

There must have been
a last night inside her.

This is the part
I keep thinking about.

A last night
when I still lived
entirely inside another person,

and neither of us
called it goodbye.

Then morning came.

And for the first time,

her voice
was no longer underwater.