Womb of the Present
By Niall Twohig
Mollie has a little baby growing inside her. She’s at the doctor’s office as I write, nervous about life: the life she’s living, the life that’s growing, the uncertain life to come.
I’m far from her, sitting in a green bower. But I take this in for her and the baby—the green of the Canary Island Pine, the light playing on its needles, birdsong from some unseen nook. In this bower I am in the womb of the present. As are you, little child, out there in Mollie’s womb. May whatever force that allows the green to be, the light to be, the birdsong to be, ease your mama’s nervousness and pull us to a new Spring.