On the eve of Mothers Day, I feel like I ought to wax poetic about the mothers who raised me, about my experience as one, and my overwhelming excitement waiting for my daughter to become one in the next 11 days. I do feel joy about all of these people and conditions. But I also feel an enormous pressure, literally, in my belly. It's the corresponding pressure to the weakness in my diaphragm, and it's just uncomfortable to the point of distraction, frankly. All day I have felt like it's all I can do to hold my torso to its normal dimensions, and not swell up like Violet Beauregard. I don't want to write. I just want to lie on the bed and watch this wild Netflix series my friend suggested (about a cult in Oregon in the 1980s), until I fall asleep.
Here is what is blooming today: broom and iris. I'll try to get pictures of the new roses that appeared on my property tomorrow, along with a little story of how they got here.
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