Corrupted Lungs was reckless. She had always been this way, delighted with the living.She knew she should be careful now, careful with what the swelling of her belly was signalling, but she didn't know if she wanted to be careful. She felt bad thinking that, the not being sure if she cared enough about these children to be careful for them when so much of who she was and how she lived was being uncareful. It's not that she didn't care--this just wasn't who she was.
Last Night had felt the same way, the not uncaring, but the conflict of one's nature with the thought that maybe one should be careful because of the sacs that will be laid down.
They walked together, the bare and blind, a skeletal doe that had never seen her own form reflected in the water next to a mare that had always been acutely aware of herself, antlers tearing into the sky--two uncareful does.
They walked like this for a long time--quiet and silent in their contemplation (one struggling and the other reconsidering what it had meant that she had thought but not struggled). When they came upon a thickly wooded area, the water and sediment under their hooves giving way to tangled roots that held the dirt closer and a touch drier, they parted ways; there were no caiman hiding here, too many obstacles to allow one to sneak its way to the Zikwa.
They parted with a touch. May your children always love enough that they are willing to struggle.
