I suppose it all begins with water, doesn't it?
The pulsing, pushing swish of embryonic fluid in a mother's womb.
Screams which shatter empty space in a room smelling of antiseptic
and blood, as her water breaks.
Somehow, she rejoices in the wet of her tears and salty sweat.
Somehow, her baby opens new eyes to a world of air and noise.
Her baby learns to cautiously tread the pool's deep end,
to ride the ocean's waves,
to plumb its depths.
A child begins to grow in the throb of the sea's murmur.
And then, one day, the stream of cool spray from a shower-head hits
below the belly button pressure rises, water caresses, pulls and—
Water runs over and under the child's path.
Tears on a rain-soaked curb in August.
Sweat on tangled sheets in a dawn lit dorm room.
The dinner table of a special someone's parents.
A park in spring and a velvet lined box and a question.
Late night love and a double red line.
My turn, I suppose.
Something grows inside me, cradled by the waves within my womb.
We listen to their insistent hum as they crash on new shores.
I suppose it all ends with water, too.
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