There is a woman at the park we recognize. Work? City Arts? Our mutual friends introduce us. We swap names. She works at the university. She of course recognizes A., who is thin and blonde with distinct features. She barely looks at me.
I glance at her son.
I think we were in prenatal yoga together.
I follow M. around the playground, help her up the ladder. I glance at her son. 3 and a half years old.
Yes, we were in prenatal yoga together when I was pregnant with…
I ask our mutual friends how old her son is. Quietly. Apart.
He was born in January 2013.
I do not look again at her son. At how big he is, how old. How he is climbing on top of the tunnel, listening to his parents’ conversation with three-year-old understanding. I do not look back at his dark hair.
Yes, we were in prenatal yoga together when I was pregnant with Joseph, I do not say to her. He was my first, I do not explain at her bewildered glance at my two daughters, assessing their ages.
Today is not a brave day.
© Burning Eye