Sunday, May 13, 2007

 
I have four embryos in a petri dish in New York City. I think about them sitting there in a lab, in the dark, floating around in some kind of medium. I feel protective of them. Until Friday they were in me, or at least half of them were. I prodded and coaxed and whispered to the egg part of them for days trying to get them to grow. And they listened, or maybe they just continued doing what they were going to do all along.

Now they are slowly splitting themselves up, dividing and dividing again. It is unreasonable to expect that all four of them will continue this process beyond Wednesday, or even Monday. They will be peered at and graded come the start of the week and then the ones that make it to Wednesday will be frozen. I'll have another month to create a better home for them, a plush housing they can burrow into and live in for nine months. Then, they must survive the thaw. They must come back to life.

If I could, I'd camp out outside the lab doors all weekend. I'd stand there in the dark with my nose pressed up against the window, staring at the clusters of cells. I'd be able to beam my life force and essence into each delicate membrane. But instead, I sit here and try to pulse long-distance love westward. I hope that's enough.

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Long-distance love going eastward, too! Go little dudes go!
 
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