I touch it. Grazing it back and forth with my thumb. It’s a line. Abrupt and slightly distracting. In the dark I can mistake it for a line of muscle. It’s a shadow rather than a real thing. It’s a line rather than an indentation.

If I close my eyes I can imagine a babe. A few days old. Pink with brand newness. Smaller than my stomach it was cut on. I can not hear me cry because I don’t think I did. I can see me in my mothers arms and my dad’s concerned face.

What I wish never to see is me as my mother. Holding my own daughter in the same way. With the same line across her stomach and the same look on my husband’s face. What I want and what god wants… is hopefully one in the same.

But when I dance at night. Freshly bathed and smelling sweet. It’s a shining wave that touches me.