He clawed
his way out of the earth, his dirt womb.
He
stood up, looked around the birthyard and shook the dirt out of his
hair.
He
tried to inspect his hands and body for clues, but the moon was already
fading.
Soon there would be too much sun to see by.
“So,”
he said aloud, “this is being born.”
X
X X
He
stumbled around until he found a strip-mall and a shop window, the display
of clothing backed with a mirror; PICTURE YOURSELF IN THESE! written
in large red letters on the glass.
He
examined himself closely.
He
was probably between 35 and 40 years of age and in fairly decent health.
His
heart sank a little; that didn’t seem like enough time. That’s
all the life he got, forty years? He’d hit puberty in 25 years
or so. How many women could he love in that time before the process
eluded him?
He
imagined it, being old, small and helpless, his mind losing it, losing
concepts he’d grasped since conception. He’d lose emotional
control first; eventually he wouldn’t remember how to read.
He
pushed these thoughts away, trying to comfort himself with the fact
that these fears would fade in time, the younger he got.
The
shop owner stepped out.
“See
you eyeing that one,” he said, gesturing.
“Oh
yes. It’s very nice.”
“The
price is nice, too,” the shop owner said.
“Hmm.
I’m afraid it’s too small for me,” he said.
The
shop owner smiled.
“Don’t
worry; you’ll grow into it.”
