The air is warm enough that I am able to sit on my winter-mildewed balcony, the tiles under my bare feet hot, the northern wind absent. I am without child and husband, wearing yesterday’s loose pants and cardigan. It’s Saturday and the rains of the last days have plumped up the leaves on our birch tree. I almost cannot see the hospital, where I was just released from last week, the spring trees overtaking the view. I no longer know what it feels to wake up clear. Somehow the self-inflicted pain from hangovers in my twenties where far better then getting sick by foreign pathogens in my thirties. Seems like
pain was more manageable from my own hand.
I have four months until I’m without sleep once again, my body lactating, my food and life regulated by cries. I had an illusion of sailing into this summer, my first toddling his way ahead of me as I regaled once again at the beauty of the human body, rounding and changing to accept a new life.
For now I do as my mother in law says: trinken und abwarten.
Waiting it seems for a health that is slow in returning.