A Year Ago Today

A Year Ago Today

A year ago
today
the arrowleaf balsam root
raised their unwavering
yellow heads,
beacons of happiness,
of the welcome brightening
that is spring.

A year ago
today
your sister
danced in a pink tutu
across the hard wood,
sang her ABC's with
pride, entertained and
amazed
while we waited.

A year ago
today
I heaved my heavy body
through another day.
Read to the children about a
miraculous bunny named Edward Tulane,
entered the world of the story
with my whole
self,
the whole, ephemeral self
that is the forty week
pregnant woman.

She is beyond herself.
She both floats above and
burrows deep.

A year ago
today
I took myself to lunch.
Oh how I love Bernice's
red pepper spread,
that perfect ratio of
turkey to swiss to
fresh bread,
a quiet bit in another,
full Monday.

Fuel.

Preparation.

A year ago
today
I took a 4:00 bath.
Perhaps early,
certainly earned.
My belly rumbled and stirred,
the cramps I've known
for twenty years,
amplified and familiar.
The belly of a woman
is always up to something.

A year ago
today
I thought
perhaps
this is it.
Called a friend.
We sat together
in the soft yellow
candlelight and
listened to my ladies
croon,
held their harmonies,
created safe,
holy space.

A year ago
today
I pressed my whole self
into the edge of the couch,
cat cowed on my mat,
paced very, very slowly.

Calm.
Familiar.

A year ago
today
I let them lead me to
my bed.
Let them tell me
what to do.
Let me tell me.
Let you.

Gripped the etched bed post,
understood the ornateness
the carvings on the wood,
in a whole new way.
The bed.
The bed of your birth.

The wisdom of a midwife
and a woman and a
baby
looking
for light.

A year ago
today
there were three
mighty surges.
A big boy
head.
The wide shoulders.
The ecstasy.

And there you were
in my bed.
In my arms.

My perfect son.
My life
whole.