How she measures the days and their small bodies against her own. The child curled against her arm, against her ribs, the toddler on her chest. Everyone is breathing. She builds her body into home, into refuge, tries to fall into the moment like a well.
Her body is a fortress. Her body is a monument. She wants to say, but where is the original map? But where have we buried my body? You can’t ask this of children. She grows stiff, tries to hold them until she becomes a door, and they all walk through.