i will wake. disappointed.
again, as so many times before. to find it’s true.
from the other side now. inside out. hoodmother.
the back of motherhood. her corners dusty. circle closed.
on Sunday I will miss and cherish you, beautiful h, because it was you who made me a mother, first.
i will close my eyes to kiss fat toes, scoop round belly, run silken hair through fingers
and oh, the smell. the smell. of my own child, so sweet.
well before you were born you were mine and so,
well after you are gone you are still. and always.
on Sunday I will spread my blanket for all mothers
who’s mom-ness didn’t go as planned.
for her, for you, i will breathe deep. and exhale. gaze to blue and pray.
she who longed and wished and waited, pleading
please, please. these unanswered prayers.
she who suffered. the miscarried, the stillborn, the aborted, the never quite made it.
hopeful embers who refused to ignite.
she, who raised those borne of others, and loved them close
i remember you, i know you. yes, we have met.
on Sunday, you are a mother, all and truly.
you birthed — the glow of love
you delivered — a promise un-keepable
you nurtured — a craving unmet, never forgotten
on Sunday, for the ones who
eat no pancakes, place no flowers in a jar, answer no echoing long distance phone calls.
i honour you, with reverence.
on Sunday, empty your pockets full of stones. i will hold your tired heart so you may rest awhile.
i see you now, and
i am sorry. to not have noticed you standing there before. enduring Sundays past
i was blessed. once. twice.
still am. a beautiful girl.
for all the sparks that rose from the fire too soon.
blinking off into the night, ahead of schedule
on Sunday please recall the bedrock truth
you were part of a miracle once, and
a miracle that doesn’t last
is still a miracle.