6 CREATIVE NONFICTION I am in a warm, safe place. There is a nose. Strong potter’s fi ngers reached down, pushed softly in, warmed it, pulled it out and smoothed it down with a forefi nger. He formed the little nostrils around some unknown support, spreading and smoothing to the perfect width and thickness, fi nishing with a little caress, completely unnecessary. Nourishment comes to me. I know not how, nor do I know enough to wonder about it. The baby has eyes it can open in this dark place. Two little beads in the face, forming into concentric circles of color from which a soul can look out. Months before there is anything to see, the Meditation: From Psalm 139 Anastasia Cook baby blinks. Do the eyelashes fl it open when she does, or do they grow in later, like the dusting of hair on the scalp that might not appear until after birth? What does it cost the woman who supports me? There is nausea. Feet fl atten after enough pregnancies. Weight she can’t drop. Iron defi ciencies, gestational diabetes. Blood work. So many needles. All for me to take up that space in her body. I join her bloodstream. In time, I can see lights and shadows. Then something changes. There is pressure, a rush—at least, it must feel like a rush to me, warmed and held in the same small space for nine
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