2:47 by Rania Ghazal

Posted on October 4, 2013 by

1


2:47 am,

Mother

I wake up with sweat covering my entire body, a pounding in my head, and a fingertip grazing the inside of my belly.  It felt like he’s  tracing words onto me. Tattooing me with what he wanted to say that couldn’t wait until he was born. I press my eyelids together and let out a light sigh.

 

2:47 am,

Son

These fingers are my pen, my mama’s skin is my paper. My thoughts always exhaust me. They cling to my head with sweaty hands, their breath as deep as the pacific ocean. I ink them onto her when I can’t stand their weight anymore. Mama is flesh and bones and words. I’ve turned her into a poem. I’ve slid words in different parts of her body so she is beautiful not just on the outside but on the inside as well. She is the moon that I write letters for every single day. My mother is poetry in motion.

 

2:47 am,

Mother

I’ve never told anyone about the baby. At the beginning I thought I lost my mind, I was terrified. Fear covered me like a blanket, spreading its hands around my neck, suffocating me. My lungs did cartwheels and my blood ran marathons. My heart felt like it was about to give up on me. When I got used to his touches, his fingers turned gentle, almost like he was afraid he’ll break me if he presses too hard. That’s when I started reading what he wrote me every day.

A sudden memory of my ex-husband interrupts me. He slips his hands around my waist, kissing me in every language, leaving a trail of I love you’s on my skin behind. He makes love to me like a promise. Holds me like I’m the answer. Our limbs are entwined and I’ve dropped my breath on the floor, but oxygen is overrated when I’m inhaling the scent of his skin. I hear nothing but the sound of our heartbeats in sync. Suddenly, I’m yelling at him. There’s another women in his life. On my bed. I slap him. I run. I’m pregnant. He’s gone. I can’t keep the baby.

 

2:47 am,

Son

Mama is in pain, I can feel it. If I could erase the memory of my father out of her mind, I would. I quickly start writing. Don’t be afraid, Mama. I’ll knead your heart like dough until it stops hurting. You are not the problem or the mistake or the sinful or the guilty. You are the solution and the right decision, the good deed and the innocent. I am not the consequence of a mistake. I am not the collateral damage of your decisions. Please don’t think that. I love you so much and I’ll prove it.

 

2:47 am,

Mother

I push the memories away and take a deep breath. How was I thinking of letting you go, I  whisper to my stomach. I am so sorry. You are my saving grace. My salvation.

 

2:47 am,

Son (4 weeks later)

In 4 seconds I will see my mother. I curl my fingers into my palm and lick the leftover ink. Wrapping myself with the letters I’ve dropped by mistake. I close my eyes. My heart is pounding so hard. 3 seconds. I will spend a lifetime adoring you. I will be the corner of your smile and the echo of your laughter. 2 seconds. I can hear her silently crying. 1 second. There she is.

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