These Arms

It is eight months later and halfway through my second pregnancy of the year when I notice my arms are still holding the pain as the massage therapist works her hands down them. For some reason, I feel as though my arms are the most innocuous part of my body — they’re not in constant use, like my legs and feet; they’re not in perpetual defense, like my stomach; not in overuse, like my mind; not in question, like my heart. They dangle at my sides dutifully obeying the central nervous system’s directives. Utilitarian, adaptive, capable.

In my mind, my arms are so exhausted because they can be. It’s as if they offered themselves up to the rest of my body in sacrifice. “We are the least needed,” they say. “We understand if you want to cut off our circulation.” I googled it but I can’t find any sound reason as to why just my arms would be so fatigued, but here I can barely lift them to hold my phone, here, their every presence is an ache.

Perhaps their pain is so real because they have spent a lifetime pushing, a lifetime holding, a lifetime protecting, and now that my body has truly walked through the fire they can exhale. They can say “Us no longer,” they can pull in and release their responsibility to always be the first to sense, the first to touch. They no longer have to be brave, they no longer have to lead the battle cry as we collectively -- my body parts and I -- forge into the world, pretending we’re armored. Pretending we have more than these outstretched arms waiting to be burned.