by nicolecallihan

Pressing my wrist to Eva’s forehead to feel for heat, time collapses. My wrist becomes my wrist five years from now, checking for fever, the days gone short, the blinds pulled tight; becomes my mother’s wrist when I was a girl; becomes Eva’s wrist when I’ve grown old. So much held in the body, in the delicate pulsing skin. You’ll be okay, I say to her–my mantra, my promise–we’ll all be okay.