When I was pregnant with you
I felt like I was walking on top
of a typewriter.
Each experience
hammering a letter
into the ribbon of your unfolding
being.
And so it was that a story was written
onto your milky memory
of those months of our shared life.
When you emerged
with a great bellow
it retreated inside of you.
But stories never stay buried for long.
They are built with breath
that floats them to the surface
and when you uncover yours
I hope it makes you roar
with laughter.
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