Ours

Yesterday I felt the rapture of aliveness.
Today I feel heavy, muted, dark.

This is what makes me afraid
of talking or writing.
I utter a few sentences about my grief
and it creeps up from the depths.
What first appear to be tiny tendrils
lead to heavy ropes to untangle.
Strands of Melancholy.
Jealousy. Anger. Guilt.

I am frightened of what lies in the darkness,
wary that it will shadow the beauty of this family,
anxious it will hurt the people I love.

The underbelly of this experience
has yet to see the light of day.
This is me trying,
trying to find the right words
after ages of silence.

I am vulnerable. Always so damned vulnerable.
A piece of my heart is living outside of me,
in someone else’s care.

My baby.
Whose big brown eyes are reflections of my own.
Whose rosebud lips are a family inheritance.
I see myself in his fierce independence,
in his quiet people watching.
He is mine.

In my arms this moment,
in hers the next.
Mine and not mine.

My son.
Her son.
Their son.

Our son.

The “our” in our son makes my heart sing,
nearly every time I say it.
I craved this sharing all my life,
for my babies to be ours.

Yet I’m angry that when I finally get the ours
I waited an eternity for,
it demands giving a piece of myself away,
the ultimate sacrifice for a Mama.

I delight in the giving.
Generosity is my bliss.

And I feel the heartache in losing.
Every single day.
I have to accept
that it could always be this way.

This is a new kind of aliveness.
A deep stretch into a new kind of loving.
Mine and not mine.

Ours.

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