Everything Here Is Beautiful

by Mira T. Lee

When Esperanza was born, a pair of serpents lived inside my head. Their job was to warn me of the dangers of motherhood, which boiled down to this: If you touch your baby, she will die. My body, commandeered, a vessel of evil, was leaking evil into my child. The serpents spoke in opposite voices. If one was soft, the other was loud; if one politely reminded me to keep my hands to myself, the other said I deserved to have my arms lopped off for not listening. They scrutinized my every move. She is removing the baby’s diaper. She is wiping the baby’s bum. The baby is crying. See, the baby is no good. Cheap. Defective. Don’t touch baby like that! Chop it off! Return to the proper authorities for a refund. Twelve touches, they said. Twelve more touches. Then my baby, contaminated, would die. I didn’t tell anyone. First, it was a secret. Second, I was ashamed. Third, I couldn’t stand to hear the human population’s efforts to convince me it wasn’t true—you’re sick! you’re sick!—that was all part of the plot. So I wore thin cotton socks over my hands, dressed my baby in layers, cocooned her in blankets, avoided her skin coming into contact with mine. If I did as I was told, I hoped they might spare her. But it was hard to be a good mother like that.