Liminal

The whoosh-whoosh eclipses our still apartment. My weather app announces a cloudless sky, a quiet mind, but still: a windy whoosh-whoosh.

“Is that you?” My husband’s head swivels from me to the ice maker. We trust the noise is there and together glide across beige tile, but no.

A cracked window, maybe? Or the ceiling fan? Television static upstairs?

The whoosh-whoosh quickens, an urgent heartbeat, like looking over the edge at the South Rim—before the mustard seed grew in my belly but didn’t bloom.

Thoughts pass like clouds. Our bodies cross but never collide. Always expecting.