Friends have visited for the past week-plus. I’ve gotten a bit off schedule with postings and will be back on track for Monday. In the meantime, here’s a recent poem entitled, ‘The Day I Was Born’. While working on revisions, I thought to ask my mom what she might remember.
“Pain! I remember pain!” And after the pain? “They brought me a girl and I said it couldn’t be mine, because I can only have boys. Then my stomach did a turn and told me yes, it was mine.”
The Day I Was Born
Alone at the kitchen table
breakfast dishes caked with fried eggs
littered with toast crust, smoke
lingers from the cigarette
she drops into her empty coffee cup.
She sighs, this pregnancy
so different from the others
all boys, even the one who died.
No gifts this time, no yellow-green
crocheted booties, stuffed bears
or chocolate, no tempting fate.
She frets with the edge
of the table cloth, in awe
of this new world pulsing
feels the low kick, high step
hopes for a girl, pink
and healthy. Outside, the day
is crisp and orange gold
long past summer. She pushes
away from the table, leans
into her arms to stand, then steps
close to the window, breathes
for us both. While one hand cradles
her belly, the other outlines a heart
in the haze of her breath.
She loves this time of year.