I find the tradition of comparing the size of an unborn baby to various fruits an amusing one. It is, of course, an attempt to help the mother infuse the mystery unfolding on the other side of her skin—a universe away—with some sense of tangible reality. Particularly because no fig has ever been as profoundly heavy, both physically and existentially, as a pregnancy in its eleventh week. Still invisible to the rest of the world, it presses the mother down, down, down into the earth. My bones ached from weight of that little fig and the infinite labyrinth of its jewel-like interior.