Breathe

I have the window wide open today. The air rushes in and I take great gulps.

My friend writes every Sunday. The words flow from her onto the page and she feels lighter. She has processed. She has created.

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When I was pregnant with my children each would shove little feet up into my ribs on the right side. Sometimes it was a hard jab and other times slow, persistent pressure. Either way, my lungs were compromised and air was hard to hold onto. I'd stretch and wiggle until I could breathe properly again only for their foot to once again find that comfortable place that made me choke and gasp for air.

When they were born I could breathe with ease almost immediately.

It is so easy to compare writing to birth. Of course it's been done. Of course it's cliche. Hackneyed.

But isn't it true that you can breathe better after an essay, story, or poem is done? Our  "babies" are out there now, no more foot in the rib.

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Today I imagine my friend sitting at her computer with a cup of coffee. Her window is open and she watches the sun next to the Austrian crystal that hangs there. Words flow.

Poems emerge.

She can breathe.