My friend is brave. She laughs when others would cry. Her comedy is her strength and her healing. Then she’ll go so far as to crack you up too, and you’ll want to say “thank you,” but you’ll be too busy smiling to speak.
She and I love Indian food, the smelliness of it, how we can stuff our faces and feel less guilt because everything comes with vegetables. However, our husbands do not agree and the smell of curry is a complete and utter insult to them both. Forced to entertain our own cravings, we meet up for a rendezvous with naan.
Over samosas (fried - but again, has veggies!) she tells me the good news. “We’re pregnant,” she beams, and this time I’m giggling possibly like never before because my joy is infinite, because now her humor will not only grow but multiply.
I take an enormous bite of something spicy, and that’s when my pal shows me her pants, how the top button is grasping for dear life because it can’t meet the other side. It can’t quite make it to the hole of its home and it’s about to burst. She even fastened a rubber-band and created some sort of contraption in order to make the jeans wearable. The taste of saffron is eclipsed by my lastima as I’m overcome with what’s happening in her belly, how it’s moving out to make room, how it’s gone on just the same for millions of years. And now for her!
I can’t eat anymore. I’m too full (not that that’s ever stopped me before) and I don’t have as good of an excuse for my own button to pop. We part ways and she bops down the street, probably telling her baby a really funny joke. I drive home with the windows down trying to air out the stench of cumin on my clothes, and think about how special it is to bloom inside a witty womb.
p.s. Maternity jeans…another lastima post in the making.