When my mother was pregnant with her first child, someone had told her that having a peaceful image in mind would help her during delivery. My brother was born in a hospital room, but really he was born somewhere in her childhood, in her grandparents' garden, not too far from Italy. He was born during one of those Sunday naps, hearing her family's voices in the distance as they were clearing the outside table where they just had lunch. My brother was born somewhere between memory and rêverie, when some go for a rest and others go make coffee.
I was born over her eyelids. In her mind, she was laying on the ground watching the sky through the moving branches. When one cheek is cold of shade and the other one is burning up. I was born like a stencil of warmth over her body, like a tree over her nap.