Motherhood
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I wonder what your smilewould look like now. Not the smileI can imagineon a baby. The awkward,half-grown grinof an eleven-year-oldtrying desperatelynot to looklike a little kid anymore. Would you insiston choosing your own clothesfor picture day? Would I spend the morningfixing your hair,only for youto undo everythingbefore the photographercalled your name? Would you bring homea…
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Good morning,my beautiful girl. The house will wake soon. There will be little voices,breakfast crumbs,someone needing something,and all the beautiful chaosthat comeswith raising children. Life has never beenparticularly quietaround here. And some mornings,I am gratefulfor the noise. It reminds meof everythingI still have. But today,I wish there wereone more voicecalling me Mom. One more sleepy…
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There are thingsmy mind has struggledto carry. Pieces of timethat grief has blurred,softened,or buriedwhere I cannotalways reach them. But my bodyhas never forgottenthat I was your mother. My arms still understandthe shapeof wanting to hold you. My chest still tightenswhen I hearof another mothersaying goodbye. There are momentswhen I look at your siblingsand feel the…
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I know what it meansto watch children grow. To fold away clothesthat fit only weeks ago. To find shoesabandoned by the door,already too smallfor the feetthat once filled them. I know the strange griefof watching childhooddisappearwhile the childis still right there. But you— I never gotto complainabout how quicklyyou were growing. Never got to discoverthat…
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People call October beautiful. They speak of amber leaves,cold mornings,pumpkins glowingon crooked front steps. They love the waythe trees surrendertheir coloursbefore winter takes them. I see it too. The gold.The rust.The little deathsfalling quietlyinto the grass. But Octoberhas always knownhow to hurt me. It comes dressedin all the coloursof something beautiful,then presses its fingersinto a…
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There should have beena silence large enoughto swallow the earth. The sun should have refusedto rise. The birds should have forgottenwhat they were singing about. Somewhere,a mother was losing her daughter,and the world had the audacityto continue. Lights changed. Clocks ticked. People bought groceriesand complained about the weather. Somebody laughed. Somebody fell in love. Somebody…
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Three and a half hours. Two hundred and ten minutesbetween helloand a goodbyeno mother should everhave to learn. People measure timein birthdays,in milestones,in anniversariesthat mark the passingof another year. I learned to measure yoursin minutes. A number so smallit could fitinside an ordinary afternoon. An appointment.A long drive.A movie. Things the worldcan lose three hours…
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Before the world knewhow little timeit would give us, you belonged to mein a way no clockcould measure. Beneath my ribs,there was a daughter. A whole little universefolded into the darknessof my body. I had already begunthe quiet work of loving you. The kind that happensbefore introductions,before birthdays,before anyone elsecan understandthat a mother has alreadymade…
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I have almost heard your footstepsin a hallway full of children. Almost imagined your laughterrising above the television,your voice arguing with your brothersover somethingnone of you would rememberby morning. I have almost boughtthe extra Christmas present. Almost pictured another backpackleaning crookedly against the wall. Almost called out five nameswhen supper was ready,forgetting, for one merciful…
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Midnight comes,and the calendar turnslike it hasn’t done anything wrong. October seventeenth. The world is asleep,but somewhere inside mea woman is still becoming a motherto a little girlshe will have to learnhow to love without holding. Eleven years. I have lived whole livessince the day you were born. I have packed lunches,washed blankets,kissed scraped knees,survived…
