I don’t feel time anymore and my self deprecation gets me through the day. No one wants to know about my bouts of insomnia or how surreal it is to feel the rhythm of your hiccups inside me because I’m alone. I’ve spent months collecting trinkets and clothes for you like a rotund magpie.

It’s warm outside, the kind of heat that envelops you, but it’s more comfortable than the artificial coolness inside the house. I feel you throughout the day and it’s hard to believe you’re a part of me. My breasts and stomach are swollen, I’ve bought loose fitting tops to accommodate you, I’ve donated several pairs of shoes to Goodwill and spend too much of my morning trying to make sense of what I’ve dreamt. Your fist pushes against my ribs and I press back with my fingertips below my sternum.

he ultrasound equipment thumped rhythmically next to me as I watched your small transparent legs pump beneath you on an outdated black and white screen. The nurse gave me cold moist wipes to clean the lubricant off my stomach and blurry screen captures ground out on cheap paper like a series of receipts from the grocery store. I wanted to replay that moment over and over.