Momentum
by Rebecca Levin

     You hobble past the painting on the wall, barely registering its faded colors.  Tattered

butterflies have long since abandoned wilted flowers; darker patches stain tired petals.

     Before that, you are busy forgetting everything that ever mattered: your daughter’s name,

the flavor of a crisp breeze, the reason you walked into the living room.

     You are a mind deteriorating, wrapped in a deteriorated body. 

     But before that, you wake up in bed, next to the memory of your loved one.

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           .                                            *  *  *

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     You hurry past the painting on the wall, almost late for work.  Over the years, the reds

and blues have mellowed, settling into a strained routine with the butterflies that alight on them.

     Before that, you are cataloguing all the things you can’t afford to forget: the rent’s due

date, the time your daughter gets home from school, the cup of bitter coffee that braces you

against another day.

     You are a mind contemplating the world weighing down.

     But before that, you wake up in bed, next to somebody who loves you.

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                                                      *  *  *

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     You storm past the painting on the wall.  Scarlets and cobalts pulse with barely contained

energy and butterflies vibrate from bloom to bloom, unsatisfied with the taste of nectar.

     Before that, you are obsessing over what dominates your world: who you are meant to be,

how to blend in without losing yourself in the crowd, what life has in store for you.

     You are a mind struggling to understand the body it inhabits.

     But before that, you wake up in bed, accompanied by loneliness.

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                                                  *  *  *

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     A thing you will learn is a rectangle miraculously hovers next to a larger rectangle you

will learn is a wall.  Delighted by the trick, you are transfixed by the bright visual variance in the

smaller rectangle.

     Before that, you experience novel things: the embrace of sunlight, the smell of

attachment, the mysterious siblings of your hands that have appeared on arms below your diaper.

     You are a body trapping a mind inside.

     But before that, you wake up in a cradle, surrounded by the comforting detritus of your

mother’s love.