Being a mother made everything different.
Small child. Only child.
She falls and I feel it. Soft butterfly dancing in my hand.
My heart is on my sleeve. See, you can touch it.
I live with the horror that it could so easily be shattered.
The vulnerability has changed me,
the unfamiliar face in the mirror.
Grooves deepening.
Years lost to the joys of her, sweet joy
of her. Of her. Of her.
We moved. For her. For tribe.
Now, I work full time, and she is cared for by her family.
I dropped the reigns, hard as it was.
I hardly recognized my trembly, leathered hands.
I see her with my husband. He makes her lunches.
Brings her to school. Signs her papers.
Tells her he loves her.
He gets to hold the parts I've held tightly for so long.
It's heartbreakingly beautiful.
I watch them. Their inner circle.
This is their time.
If I wasn't here, she would be okay.
She'd be okay.
She'll be okay.
*****
My energies and most of my working day are with them,
strangers to whom I have committed so much valuable time and energy.
I miss her, and yet
look at me learning this new job.
Look at me remembering my own power.
Look. I'm not broken by love.
I'll be okay.
*****
Each evening I return to them,
they play games. They watch tv.
"Mommy!"
We're okay.
