I want dark frayed linen and mismatched china on the windowsill. Woolen socks drying on the line in early morning, meandering fog and dried nailed lavender above the sink. I want stone hues, silk scarves that always seem to stay put, and the slow drip of a copper faucet. People walking bikes along the path beside my open window. Tea cake crumbs in the pockets of my apron.
That is the home in which I wish to birth my words.
Instead, I sit in a sea of modern American scurf. Discarded plastic toys, primary-colored kitchen utensils soaking in the steal sink, the sound of a gas-powered mower snorting outside. I pull the roller shade down and brush the naked Elsa doll from my spot on the couch. They say no birth plan goes accordingly, and I suppose this should be no different.I fire up the computer, and labor.
Labor, after all, is the only home where birth unfailingly comes to be.