The Bath (11/20/10) by T. Sandel
Last night I pretended that I was pregnant
still
or again
or at last
I poured a tall bath, not too hot,
and lit all the candles
and added rose oil for strength.
With a big sigh
I lay back and studied my belly
imagining my body more special than it is
for holding something more than I am.
I cried salty tears
dripping into the water
for my lost babies who are still here
healthy and whole
but so much bigger and stronger, mobile and articulate
that it’s not enough anymore to sit and hold them while they sleep.
I wept for babies lost
whom we never got to hold, too
Jolene’s, Nicole’s, and Stephen’s twin
all the babies that tried in Julie’s body before Kaelen took root
with his signature tenacity
all the love for those sweethearts that had to be diverted or swallowed too quick.
But I smile to remember more babies we got to keep
mine and yours that you let me hold and admire
in the grocery store and at ball games,
at the babies we all once were
when other, older women celebrated
our weight gain, and hair growth, and changes in teeth.
if I’d started earlier
I think I might be a woman who keeps having babies
until she can’t afford them
in money or spirit
I’d take my brood of 8 to the ice cream shop
lined up in hand-me-down clothes
ever so polite
I’d home school them for the pure fact that I couldn’t keep up with their homework
and notes and schedules otherwise
and they would so honor thy mother!
But that’s pretend, and the reality is exceptionally good
two boys on the cusp –
intelligent, funny, and generous, sweet
asking if they can join me in the tub now
hinting at a massage later
or some chocolate,
or maybe a trip to that ice cream shop.
the truth is in my floating bones,
woman bones that feel and see and know
beyond scientific proof:
my bones know that “all I could ever be, I already am”
that pregnant before or pregnant never,
my body is a rocking temple
of fire and joy running over
for all our babies, our men,
our beautiful girls of every age
and that my mother-job is to cherish me a little
just as I am
to love us all.
still
or again
or at last
I poured a tall bath, not too hot,
and lit all the candles
and added rose oil for strength.
With a big sigh
I lay back and studied my belly
imagining my body more special than it is
for holding something more than I am.
I cried salty tears
dripping into the water
for my lost babies who are still here
healthy and whole
but so much bigger and stronger, mobile and articulate
that it’s not enough anymore to sit and hold them while they sleep.
I wept for babies lost
whom we never got to hold, too
Jolene’s, Nicole’s, and Stephen’s twin
all the babies that tried in Julie’s body before Kaelen took root
with his signature tenacity
all the love for those sweethearts that had to be diverted or swallowed too quick.
But I smile to remember more babies we got to keep
mine and yours that you let me hold and admire
in the grocery store and at ball games,
at the babies we all once were
when other, older women celebrated
our weight gain, and hair growth, and changes in teeth.
if I’d started earlier
I think I might be a woman who keeps having babies
until she can’t afford them
in money or spirit
I’d take my brood of 8 to the ice cream shop
lined up in hand-me-down clothes
ever so polite
I’d home school them for the pure fact that I couldn’t keep up with their homework
and notes and schedules otherwise
and they would so honor thy mother!
But that’s pretend, and the reality is exceptionally good
two boys on the cusp –
intelligent, funny, and generous, sweet
asking if they can join me in the tub now
hinting at a massage later
or some chocolate,
or maybe a trip to that ice cream shop.
the truth is in my floating bones,
woman bones that feel and see and know
beyond scientific proof:
my bones know that “all I could ever be, I already am”
that pregnant before or pregnant never,
my body is a rocking temple
of fire and joy running over
for all our babies, our men,
our beautiful girls of every age
and that my mother-job is to cherish me a little
just as I am
to love us all.
No comments:
Post a Comment