The Cornice

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We thought we were far enough

from the edge of the snow-covered ridge

that hovered above a glacier-carved ravine,

yet when Annica tripped on her shoelace,

we gasped until she was on her feet again.

We had entered this high point riddled with caution signs,

chose to walk along this finger pointing to an imminent death,

even paused to eat our lunch perched atop its severity,

haunted by ghostly implications inhaled as cold mountain breaths.

I feared the sound of snow cracking beneath my feet,

the beginning of a fall, my stomach lodged in my throat,

gravity pulling the rest of my body down,

these two parts of me a rubber band

stretched to its breaking point.

I feared the awareness of death

that would surface

in such a moment.

I find myself again at the abyss,

this time on a cornice of my own making.

This is a fall that will begin when she is born and last my entire life.

People tell me about their own plunges, what they found below, how they felt.

I can’t know this expanse from looking over its edge,

not who she is, how I’ll feel, what our connection will be.

I only know this gravity will take me somewhere deep.

I’ve come to this cliff precisely

for this unknown.

How rarely in life I’ve created my own precipice,

walked past the caution signs, stepped onto the edge

not by accident, but excited by a vastness I can never contain,

nervous for the fall, for all is unknown.

Yet here I am leaning

toward mine.

first published in Mothers Always Write on April 9, 2017, web.