Heather lives just south of Austin, Texas with her husband and young son. She has a Bachelor's in Theology
and is currently pursuing her Master's degree in Literature at Texas State University. She has work both
published and forthcoming in Paradigm, Permafrost, The Houston Literary Review, and Mud Luscious.
http://heatheranastasiu.blogspot.com/
and is currently pursuing her Master's degree in Literature at Texas State University. She has work both
published and forthcoming in Paradigm, Permafrost, The Houston Literary Review, and Mud Luscious.
http://heatheranastasiu.blogspot.com/
The First Thing I Learned
For a moment, I think that mama has dropped me back inside, back inside the warmth and the wetness. I arch up like I
used to, when I would kick and squirm, feeling the stretchy edges against my toes. Until I got too big and everything
exploded and my body was squeezed tight, and then flexed out and unfolded. And it was cold, and my face hurt, and I
learned about seeing, and hearing, and sucking. I learned about flailing, and crying, and the sensations of things that hurt.
Poking, snipping, prodding, pushing, parts of me I didn't even know had names. The first thing I learned out in the big
wide world was separation. And fear.
Something strange was wrapped around me, not as soft, not as warm, and it tied me back up. And then I was finally back
near the bump-bump, bump-bump that was the only familiar thing. I opened up my mouth and sucked like I had in all my
tadpole dreams and practiced on my fists. Suddenly there it was, warm in my mouth, and I pulled and suckered and
puckered. I tasted for the first time, from the outside-in, instead of from inside to inside. I wasn't as scared then, in this
outside world with its lights and sounds and long-fingered hands passing me through the strangeness of cold space.
I have learned all kinds of things since then, painful lessons about hunger and hurt in my tummy, and being left alone in a
cold place at night, and I cry and I cry. But today it is warm, and my mama's arms are around me. She dunks me back
inside, and I'm glad to be back and hope I never have to leave again. She is down with me in the warm water.
But we are not one anymore. We are so separate. I wiggle my arms and legs and feel the gentle pull of liquid around my
thigh. There she is in front of me, her nose right by my nose. She smiles big, that bump-bump smile that makes me feel
warm and happy. She makes a splash and I giggle and kick my legs and make my own splash. Then she pulls me up again
out of the wet. The cold outside is sudden, and I take a deep breath, trapping the cold air in my chest. I cry then, and my
mama says words, the voice that rumbles in her chest, and she holds me up to her bump bump, bump bump, bump
bump. Why won't she let me climb back inside? Why does she hold me separate, always separated by this outside skin?
For a moment, I think that mama has dropped me back inside, back inside the warmth and the wetness. I arch up like I
used to, when I would kick and squirm, feeling the stretchy edges against my toes. Until I got too big and everything
exploded and my body was squeezed tight, and then flexed out and unfolded. And it was cold, and my face hurt, and I
learned about seeing, and hearing, and sucking. I learned about flailing, and crying, and the sensations of things that hurt.
Poking, snipping, prodding, pushing, parts of me I didn't even know had names. The first thing I learned out in the big
wide world was separation. And fear.
Something strange was wrapped around me, not as soft, not as warm, and it tied me back up. And then I was finally back
near the bump-bump, bump-bump that was the only familiar thing. I opened up my mouth and sucked like I had in all my
tadpole dreams and practiced on my fists. Suddenly there it was, warm in my mouth, and I pulled and suckered and
puckered. I tasted for the first time, from the outside-in, instead of from inside to inside. I wasn't as scared then, in this
outside world with its lights and sounds and long-fingered hands passing me through the strangeness of cold space.
I have learned all kinds of things since then, painful lessons about hunger and hurt in my tummy, and being left alone in a
cold place at night, and I cry and I cry. But today it is warm, and my mama's arms are around me. She dunks me back
inside, and I'm glad to be back and hope I never have to leave again. She is down with me in the warm water.
But we are not one anymore. We are so separate. I wiggle my arms and legs and feel the gentle pull of liquid around my
thigh. There she is in front of me, her nose right by my nose. She smiles big, that bump-bump smile that makes me feel
warm and happy. She makes a splash and I giggle and kick my legs and make my own splash. Then she pulls me up again
out of the wet. The cold outside is sudden, and I take a deep breath, trapping the cold air in my chest. I cry then, and my
mama says words, the voice that rumbles in her chest, and she holds me up to her bump bump, bump bump, bump
bump. Why won't she let me climb back inside? Why does she hold me separate, always separated by this outside skin?
Heather Anastasiu
