in the present, we are made up

We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.

— Anais Nin

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The February we leave the hospital with our son, it is sixteen degrees. Absurd, all the light. I don’t need a jacket.

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The one week wellness check at the community health clinic is in snow. Frantic, small pellets sting our skin. The community nurse is young. Black Converse sneakers and olive green cargo pants. She mistakes me for a doctor because of an air of authority. But whose authority is it that she’s picking up on? Surely, that can’t be mine? Me, the woman collapsed in the vinyl chair, clutching my searing midsection, swiping at tears brought on from struggling out of the car and across the iced-over parking lot.

For this appointment, I’ve kit W in a striped wool sweater my friend Julia carefully knit for him. It looks so small until I pull it over his head. The world is huge on him. It hangs down below his knees.

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