There are things
my mind has struggled
to carry.
Pieces of time
that grief has blurred,
softened,
or buried
where I cannot
always reach them.
But my body
has never forgotten
that I was your mother.
My arms still understand
the shape
of wanting to hold you.
My chest still tightens
when I hear
of another mother
saying goodbye.
There are moments
when I look at your siblings
and feel the unbearable weight
of knowing
how quickly life
can change.
I hold them closer.
Sometimes longer
than they want me to.
And I wonder
whether they understand
that beneath every embrace
is a mother
who once learned
that love
cannot keep a heartbeat
from ending.
You changed
the way I hold
every child
who came after you.
Not because
I loved them
more carefully.
But because
I learned
how precious
ordinary moments are.
And how devastating
it is
when there aren’t
enough of them.
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