I am born in the middle of the week. In the middle of a hospital. In the middle of a busy city. My parents hold me close and count all ten fingers and all ten toes. The nurses bustle in and out. In the room next door there is another sharp cry. Down in the city below a steady stream of business men and women cross streets and hail taxis.
You are born on a Saturday. Local news channels report record-breaking heat and monsoons. Your mother almost passes out after you take your first breath. Your father holds you in front of the hospital window as lightning streaks across the night sky.
I see the Pacific Ocean for the first time when I am three. I run across the beach in a pink bathing suit. My mother leads me out to the water. Her belly is growing again. They tell me I’m going to be a big sister. The wet sand is squishy between my toes. The water sprays up and I run away shrieking as a white foam wave chases me to shore.
You are four when you break your first bone. You’re climbing a tree with your brother and a branch snaps. You hit the ground and can’t breathe for a moment. Your arm is bent at an odd angle. You don’t cry much but your mother almost screams when she sees you. You’re in a cast for six weeks.
I fall in love for the first time on a Tuesday. I am ten years old and wear my hair gathered in a large pink scrunchie at the side of my head. He makes me laugh and my stomach begins to feel funny. I slide down in my seat and wonder if he will turn to face me again. The teacher stands at the front of the classroom and talks about fractions. The dry smell of chalk is faintly in the air.
You fall in love for the first time on a Sunday. She goes to your church and wears bows in her hair. She sits next to you in class and answers all the questions. Two hundred miles away I turn around in my sleep.
My first broken heart happens in the middle of July. I spend my days working and he comes to see me and tell me at lunch. When I get home I curl up in my mother’s arms and cry. She strokes my hair and offers me chocolate. We eat a tub of Rocky Road that night and watch three romantic-comedies in a row.
You have sex for the first time at her house. You are both nervous. It’s awkward and afterward you lie next to each other and stare at the ceiling. She holds the sheets against her body and you think about how she used to wear bows in her hair.
I have sex for the first time after a late night study session at the library. We are laughing and high on caffeine and lack of sleep. The sofa upholstery is scratchy against my back. He kisses my neck and tells me he loves me. There are tears in my eyes. Outside the moon is low in the sky, full and round, surrounded in silvery wisps of clouds.
Your first broken heart happens in the middle of her second year of law school. She drives two hours to tell you. You stare at a dry patch in the grass while she speaks. A door slams a couple houses down and she is gone.
I meet you on a Thursday. It’s the end of August and the air conditioner is broken. You walk in and make a comment about inflatable pools. I laugh because it’s too hot to think up a comeback. Later that night I will recall the way the corners of your eyes crinkled when you smiled.
We kiss for the first time on a Wednesday. We are watching a movie and I can’t even pretend to know the plotline because we are sitting so close and I have never been so acutely aware of someone that it’s made my toes curl like this and I’m thinking too much. And then you get up to leave and there is this voice screaming in my head and then suddenly you’re there and your lips are against mine as I practically breathe you in.
We have sex for the first time on a Monday night. It is frantic and hurried and full of want. You whisper words against my hair. I am shaking. My toes seem to pulse with electricity. The room falls away. In the morning you will find crescent shaped marks from my fingernails in your back.
We are married on a Saturday. In the church of my childhood. The bridesmaids wear green and we eat cake and dance until midnight. My feet are aching and your dress shirt collar is hanging open. Afterward we collapse onto a hotel bed and fall asleep within minutes. Down the hall a pair of lovers moves in gasping rhythm with the night
You almost leave in December. We’ve been fighting again about money and I’m crying into the phone as tears roll down my cheeks and under my chin. I’m sitting against the refrigerator door when you pad into the kitchen in your bare feet. We sit next to each other and talk until the sun comes up. You don’t leave.
Our daughter is born in the middle of the night. The contractions have been strong since we finished washing the dinner dishes. I lie on the floor in the living room. Counting. You run back and forth between rooms. We arrive at the hospital before midnight. I ask for drugs. I am worn and tired when they place her in my arms. She holds tightly to my fingers as I curl her tiny body against mine.
We buy our first house in our fifth year of marriage. The children run up the stairs to claim rooms. James helps you lug in all the furniture. We stay up late that night, cross-legged in the middle of the living room and unpack a box labeled “Knick-Knacks.”
It is June when our family first visits the Pacific Ocean. The kids pile out of the car and run toward the water. I have made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for everyone. Susan dives headfirst into the waves. I hold Davey’s hand as he walks toward the water. The sand is squishy between our toes. The water sprays up and he runs away shrieking as a white foam wave chases him to shore.
We receive the call at 2:23 a.m. My heart pulses loudly in my ears at the sound of your voice. We drive toward the hospital in silence. Four days later I will lay a yellow rose on my daughter’s casket.
It is a Monday. Or a Tuesday. Or many days when we sit around the dining room table. We lean back in our chairs telling stories. Lucy tells a joke she heard in school. We laugh so hard our bellies ache. Later that night you move against me, whispering into my hair. The rest of the house is silent and still.
We dance at our son’s wedding in January. There are lilies in the bride’s hair. He rests his hand over her ever-growing belly and they laugh. You stand and say something with tears in your eyes. A photographer snaps a picture as you kiss the top of my head.
We fly over the Atlantic Ocean in the middle of the night. The vast waters are spread out beneath us in inky darkness. You hold my hand when the plan lurches suddenly. Two hours later we step out of an airport into blinding sunlight. Buses and taxis whir by in a blur. Strangers walk past murmuring in an unknown language.
I lose you in the middle of January. It’s been a long fight. Our children cry at your memorial service. I hold little Jenny on my lap. She asks about grandpa. I sit on the edge of our bed that night with your pillow in my arms. The night quiet is disturbed by teenagers laughing as they run up the street.
I learn yoga in the middle of my seventy-sixth year. It is Lucy’s idea. She and her husband want me to move into their house. I look at the framed photos scattered across our walls. There are marks in each of the door frames measuring our children as they grew. I wake up each morning and make my own coffee and try to master Downward Dog.
I die in the middle of the week. In the middle of a hospital. In the middle of a busy city. I don’t feel much. Someone is holding my hand and saying something far away. I love you. Down in the city below a steady stream of business men and women cross streets and hail taxis.
