Precarious

I seem to have little to say these days.

I feel reduced to fleshy parts, precariously balanced against one another.
I watch myself tottering, wait for myself to fall.

I had my next scan.
A baby. Alive.
The consultant talked us through the butterfly of the brain, the bubbles of the stomach and the bladder, the chambers of the heart.
Measuring a week ahead.

But my cervix is short. Already.

A desperate race of growth against shrinking in which I cannot give either side any assistance. Despite the fact that it is all happening inside my own body.

Poor little baby. I wish I could give you something better to balance upon. Such a tiny distance to rest my life, my marriage, my living child's future, upon.

I dream of tiny babies again.

I hope that these dreams do not come to pass.

I hope for . . . I hope for so many, many things.

I wait.
Sometimes I feel as though I will disappear into myself with waiting.