Light Dark Light Again

Chocolate, coffee, and a side a grief.

Light dark light again
Light dark light again

Angie McMahon’s song plays in my headphones as I carefully set the chocolate pieces on the saucer beside the cup.

I pick up a square and position it delicately between my teeth. It’s soft, but it also has a sweet snap to the bite. I chase it with a sip of expertly bitter espresso, heavy on the decaf.

It’s a simple moment, which is often the moment where grief sneaks in, peeking its head around the corner, almost to say, “Remember me?”

It flashes memories, premonitions, scenes from alternate universes, if that’s even possible?

This time, flickering before me is a world where I’m packing a hospital bag as we speak, probably nervously navigating infant mechanisms designed to make our new adventure as parents easier.

I take another bite of chocolate and peer around the corner in my mind’s eye to watch the realization as a montage.

We would have likely been spending the last few weeks with car seats, blankets, and cribs already positioned to prepare the cats and dogs for the new roommate.

Sleep would be a delicacy too, or so I’ve heard. Pillows situated, and fingers crossed for relief that probably wouldn’t come. Waddles, bathroom breaks, and foot massages as we anxiously await the moment when everything would change.

The coffee brings me back to the present moment; suddenly aware that the chocolate has nestled just too close to the hot cup of espresso, subtly melting it against the speckled ceramic. It snaps me back like a rubber band.

Seven months to come to terms with it, and yet the parallel reality still stings.

I take another bite of the chocolate, this time leaving it in my mouth to give the next sip of espresso the honor of reducing the tender morsel to liquid before washing it down.

Time is supposed to run out, time is supposed to
Sun is supposed to go down, sun is supposed to

I’m drawn back into a daydream, different this time. I’m standing in the same spot at the counter, but positioned just a half a step back to account for the bump that’s starting to show. The second trimester has fully established itself, and the evidence is getting harder to hide.

I can just see the fridge, and instead of one ultrasound, there are three; a little girl growing rapidly. The chicken, pickles, and bean dip are sustaining her well, I see. An outsider looking in, I wonder so many things. What’s her name? Is she kicking? Do you feel the sting of the first in between the kicks of the second?

Mourning the first surely becomes easier with this one, right? I search for some sign it’s true in her face, but get no reassurance. The presence of light doesn’t equate a lack of dark; I know this, but I secretly hope that the appearance of ease signifies that the heartache has gotten lighter somehow.

It’s hard to know which brings me back first: the clink of the cup on the saucer or the tears from the fresh wound, only six weeks healed? Regardless, I’m back in the single-ultrasound-fridge kitchen.

The last piece of chocolate goes down easily, still standing at the counter eerily aware of the two other worlds swirling around me. They always are, just quieter at times than others.

Rise fall rise
Life death life again
Sky ground sky
Light dark light

The song nears the end. I finish the last sip of espresso, letting it return to its base.

I find my spot on the couch, cats at my feet, dogs nestled in to sleep beside me, the rain acting as our lullaby.

I turn on The Office, still carrying multiple worlds with me, but somehow… here.

Light dark light again
Light dark light again
Light dark light again