Thirty-one looks different
with children.
Birthdays used to belong
only to me.
Candles.
Cake.
A number added quietly
to my skin.
Now,
when I count the years,
I count them in children.
One boy
who made me a mother.
One daughter
who taught me
love can exist
for only three and a half hours
and still rearrange
an entire lifetime.
Another boy,
bright and wild,
born after grief
had convinced me
nothing beautiful
would dare return.
Then two girls—
two heartbeats
sharing a beginning,
two tiny bodies
placed in my arms
like the universe
had finally decided
to give instead of take.
There are five versions
of Mother
living inside me.
One for each child.
One learned firsts.
One learned loss.
One learned fear.
Two learned
how a heart somehow doubles
without dividing.
And beneath them all
is still me—
the girl who sometimes
doesn’t know what she’s doing.
The woman who gets overwhelmed,
raises her voice,
locks herself in the bathroom
for three stolen minutes
because everyone needs something.
The mother who forgets laundry,
loses cups,
burns dinner,
stays awake too late,
and still wakes
when someone cries.
I used to think
good mothers
were made of patience.
Now I think
we are made of returning.
Again.
And again.
And again.
To the bedside.
To the apology.
To the hug.
To the morning.
Thirty-one years alive.
Twelve years called Mom.
And if you ask me
who I am now,
before poet,
before survivor,
before woman—
I will hear their voices
calling from somewhere
down the hallway.
Mom.
And I will answer.
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