They hung from the ceiling, attached with globs of spit and mucus and other secretions, in translucent strands, thousands of them. Each of those thousand strands contained a thousand eggs. One connected to the other like pearls on a string; each individual egg contained something precious. A life. 

They filled the space of my living room like an overzealous bridesmaid had found lace garland in bulk. When the sunlight hit them just so, they resembled tiny bubbles. They were beautiful and they were mine. Of me and from me.

I moved among them, the long strands swaying around me and on me, soft yet squishy, like gelatin but firmer, the membrane separating me from them. I caressed them gently, humming a lullaby. I spritzed water on each strand, each egg, with care and attention. When I finished with all of them, I started again from the beginning. 

I no longer ate; I no longer slept. I had no need or desire for either food or rest. 

Their father, on seeing them, had asked what are you and fled. He reappeared later, murmuring apologies through the door, but by then was no longer needed. The landlord came by often, shouting that he needed to find out why there was moisture seeping into the other apartments. I barricaded the furniture against the door to keep out those that would harm them.

As weeks went by, my babies grew. They were the size of a grain of rice, then a plum, next a pineapple. I counted ten fingers and ten toes. They liked when I ran lavender through my diffuser, and when I sang Bob Dylan. I liked when they sucked their thumbs and how they kicked their feet when I gently bounced them. 

On the day they were ready, the membranes of each egg were stretched so thin and taut, they vibrated with possibility. I told them I loved them more than anything. I opened the windows wide, and the air flowed in, pulling them up and away. Sounds like the popping of bubble wrap filled the apartment and the currents took them. They filled the sky. Where they would end up was not for me to know, their survival up to them now. 

Semelparity is the term scientists use. Translated from the Latin, to beget, once. A single, fatal, reproductive event. No one could say I didn’t give it my all. 

But couldn’t I keep something for me?

In the empty apartment, I fought against the instinct to lie down and waste away. The deflated strands still hung from the ceiling, like strips of skin peeling from a bad sunburn. I clasped one in my hand, tissue-thin and nutrient-dense. 

I worked my way through them, chewing and swallowing until the apartment was clear of any sign of the life that had grown here. I moved the furniture, left the apartment, then the building. 

Belly full, I’d beget again and again. I’d beget whatever I wanted.