Dear #joy

My hips get stuck in the ladder of my son’s loft bed when I step up to kiss him goodnight. I always believe myself to be thinner than I am. I used to be thin and people think I’m sad about it. I’m fascinated by the new contours of my body. My feet are broad and my breasts sag. My knees-god, I used to be proud of my strong knees-click and grind when I go down the basement stairs. I am thirty seven, not old, but not young enough to be looked at. Nothing is as invisible as a woman growing older. I used to feel joy deep in my abdomen. But I filled up with babies and placenta. But I forgot how to be empty again. I used to stop, suddenly, letting joy become me. I bounced a little on the balls of my feet. It used to happen when I would see things like this: wild geese, cherry blossoms, tipsy, happy women on a train to a party. It used to be that I would clock it, feel it, bask in it a while, then discard it. Joy was a hot day at the beach. Now, I look up “a pervasive sense of well being” and Google says it’s joy. When I’m outside, I’m outside. When I’m laughing, I’m laughing. We are living in the worst timeline and I’m sure we’re in the bad place, so when joy visits, I head butt it like a ram, since there’s no space left in my womb. When I’m crying, I’m crying, except that’s a lie because I stopped crying years ago. Now I only howl when I really need to, and I’m efficient about it.