After a while I stop myself from sharing out the powerful storytelling of “Aftershock.”
After a while I stop my academic thoughts making sense of this story.
I lay my body down.
After a while I replay the scene of a beautiful childbirth in my head.
After a while I stop inserting my experience of the doula-assisted vaginal birth of my son.
After a while the hug between two grieving men landed in my body.
After a while I felt a tightness in my back.
After a while I felt kinship where body touches mattress.
Mine is not we-are-made-of-the-same-messy-stuff empathy.
I touched my false humility, my imagined proximity to others’ lives.
After a while I felt OK with not feeling Shawnee Benton Gibson’s words
“Black wombs matter because they create Black lives.”
After a while I felt empty from distancing from vulnerability.
I invite myself to bear witness.
