Push open the door;
willpower against breeze.
Traipse through an office lot,
hands clutching collar closed.
Precious cargo en route.
Reunited with my my car,
I gingerly unclench my fingers
extract a length of thin paper
from my chest; stow it
with reverence in the cup holder.
Draw seat belt across me.
Drive across town;
park once more.
Meet an old friend for lunch;
a prior commitment.
We're seated by the hostess.
I don't talk.
I stare off at the far wall.
I count, without tallying,
the colorful glass bottles
in the cafe's art installation.
I knock salt and pepper shakers
into one another. Boom!
"So....What do you want?"
My lunch partner ventures.
Silence; my non-response.
"...For...lunch?"
She probes, further.
Still nothing.
I am not Here.
She rolls her eyes
heavenward.
She lists out meal options.
"Salad? Sliders? Entree?"
All while nodding her head,
loaded with emphasis.
I barely hear her.
"Diana, what's up?"
She stops; gives me
The Look.
Not a look of knowing,
mind you, but a more
common look of vexation.
"You not hungry?"
I
don't
respond
quickly
enough.
I do register,
however,
a deep sigh
from her side of table.
She narrows her eyes,
while mine drift to hers.
I lock in.
"Wings."
"Huh?"
I declare again,
quietly, but decisively.
"I want wings."
"I need wings."
She squints at me.
"Ummm...OK?"
As if this will explain it,
provide context for my
prolonged strangeness,
I simply reply:
"I'm pregnant.
Pregnant!"
The server arrives
I order a dozen
for myself,
alone.
It's been six years
of failed launches.
And now
with the help of science,
a new story,
at last.
I finally have
a second heartbeat
thrumming strong yet unfelt
deep in my changing body.
My dining companion,
who is in this moment
both child-free
and single,
watches me
with a double dose
of intrigue
and of horror.
(She orders a sandwich.)
The platter,
my platter, of wings
hits the table.
I do not hesitate.
I proceed to bite,
gnash teeth,
and strip down
each broiled segment
to its stony-grey bone.
I am
where
the Wild Things
are.
Again
— and again —
— and still more —
until the plate is
but a scattering
of denuded poultry
humeri, radii and ulnae.
I am more
than hungry.
I am starving.
I am burning
with want.
I am yearning.
For motherhood.
The holy grail
I have sought
for so very long.
Since the playgrounds
of my own youth.
In those school yards
where I played House
in the dirt with my classmates.
And I was The Mom.
Always, in play yet
still never, in reality.
= = =
It's been more than
one hundred sixty months
since that moment
in a booth where I likely,
no definitely, slightly terrified
my childhood friend.
Ever since that blustery day,
whenever I get the honor
and delight of devouring
a glistening plate of wings,
I return to that strange
autumn afternoon of surreality.
That tableau at the table
in which I fully processed that,
at long last, I was finally,
finally, actually pregnant.
My epiphany,
and my accompanying
epicurious attack,
over lunch with a friend.
I can still taste
the glory of those wings.
The ones that my
little miracle in the making
had telegraphed to me.
That they had,
from before their first breath,
craved so compellingly.
So dearly.
And that I had found
and felled,
hungrily,
on their behalf.
Teamwork.
And now, in a new era,
I look across the table
and lock eyes at her.
My daughter.
We raise our wings
and clink them together
in a meaty toast while
we exclaim, "Cheers!"
It's our little ritual;
our meal-time prayer.
Over hot wings,
we raise our high hopes
and we honor the sacred
— and the savory.
For both are needed:
fill the the soul;
fill the stomach.
Amen.
