My hands smell like charred wood. My toes are cold. My belly is full. My body is edgy.
My own eyes in the mirror frighten me. They are still and empty and cool. Where am I? What am I missing?
The mountains, says a voice in my head. Always, always, whenever given the chance to speak, that’s what it says. The mountains. The hills. Ridge lines and valleys and wilderness and shadows. Clouds sunk down in the lowlands, clouds gathering above. Hiding places. We haven’t been since last summer. We talk uncommitedly of going soon, soon, a babymoon. Maybe in February. To western Massachusetts. To Vermont. A getaway.
I don’t know if my pregnant body could bear to leave if we did get there.