Thrum

by Meg Smitherman

Our knowledge is so minute, a tiny droplet in a vast sea that never ends, and we had the audacity to think we knew what we were getting into.

I wish he’d open up and tell me everything, everything. I want to know more. I want him to lay himself bare to me. I want to chart his nervous system, count his lungfuls of air, unfurl his DNA one strand at a time.

But the push and pull of fright and curiosity, of want and sharp-edged grief, threatens to wrench me apart on a molecular level.