I Knew.
By Michelle J. Fernandez
When we arrived we were four footsteps at a time:
his and mine.
Standing on the front steps of a government building
just like all the lovers before us
just to make it official.
There is something about signing on a dotted line
before god and country that somehow
makes it real.
On the morning of your birthday
you don’t feel any different,
it’s not until they start wishing you well
that the day becomes itself.
You walk a little taller,
finally grow into your ears,
start giving advice unasked,
become generous with your smile.
It’s like that.
I knew by the time his heels disappeared
behind the heavy door.
The way your mother knows you have a fever without feeling your forehead.
The way you know one more bite will make you throw up.
The way you know when someone is watching you from across the room.
The way you know in the wrist you fractured ten years ago that it’s about to rain.
I knew
and I stomped for two
and I yelled for two
and I danced for two
and they didn’t even bother to silence me because they didn’t have to.
And he, inside
a man, who like all men
could barely sit up in bed
while battling the common cold.
He, inside
in pieces.
I lived a thousand lives in those hours
walking toe toe heel heel
until they dragged me away
screaming twice as loud and kicking twice as hard.
I knew we’d be leaving as one
but I didn’t know how.
And I will forever be stepping for two.
Michelle J. Fernandez is a writer and public librarian from New York. Visit her at michellejfernandez.com and on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram at @meeshuggeneh.
Photo credit: Javier Morales via a Creative Commons license.