I tiptoe through the bedrooms
As though not meaning to wake
Cold and quiet.
Pretty glass things on her dressing table
Are familiar yet foreign
Obediently not touching
But the barrier is now officially broken
I have to paw through her precious pieces
No tea and cake
No telling of secrets or future
My youngling roots will be ripped up with this 70’s patterned carpet
There is a pretty pink bottle
That proved me a deceitful child
I spray it again
Fat droplets of betrayal
The mist on my upturned face
Smells like flowers.
And not like nan’s house at all.
The Making of a Mother
I’m not sure I loved you enough.
I wasn’t feeling my best. I wasn’t myself. Didn’t get a good head start.
Maybe if I was fully here, fully rested, I would have been a better mama. I would have. I couldn’t think, only feel. I was so Raw and so were you. So new and sacred and susceptible.
I wrapped you up I did. I wrapped you up every day. Wrapped you to me. Nobody could reach in. You cried and cried. I cried. We wrapped and we cried. Us two. So new. So vulnerable. Strong.
And it seems long ago now, just as they said it would. Now I sleep the days are more fun. I’m fully here now. I can help you much better now. I commit the moments to memory.
I’m not sure.
The man at the park gave you a pound. I put it in your money box. The exact pound. But it was the delight in his eyes at you that was the magic. Surrounded us in those first years. Enveloped us like a sparkling gold cape. It must have been magic.
Did I delight in you enough?
I’m not sure.