After I tell my mom I have the feeling of sand falling

inside the veins of my left arm,

she checks to see if I’m still breathing in my sleep—

holds a mirror to my nose to see

if a cloud will smile back in the starlit reflection.

She worries

my heart will answer whether sound comes

when a tree falls in the woods. She worries

the way only a mother

or unreachable dark parts of the ocean do.

We don’t talk about hereditary illness

like heart problems, but she knows

violence skips a generation.

My grandmother’s heart was worn

into a wooden hollow, until it echoed

loud enough to quiet the beating.

I don’t tell her motherhood

is my biggest fear—

that I can’t imagine

the moment before

pulling the mirror away,

my face blurry

with a child’s breath.

Laura Villareal

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