Soft kicks against my womb,
a wholesome swelling,
a radiant glow,
the feeling of life growing inside.
Plush stuffed animals and power pink appliqués,
Knitted receiving blankets and Winnie the Pooh pacifiers,
Graco playpens and baby powder,
quarter-cut bananas squished between fingers,
watered by grape-flavored Pedialyte.
Happy thoughts of what you would look like,
how you would smell,
how your skin would feel,
how your toes would curl,
how your eyes would look into mine.
Will you inherit your father’s love of computers?
Will you write like me?
Will you dance gracefully like a swan or
sing a capella notes like a hummingbird?
Will you have the ability to make others laugh or
touch them in their hearts with your caring spirit?
What kind of person will you be?
Your future, your dates, your education, your life.
Telling you my own experiences,
hoping that it will protect you from getting hurt.
But knowing in my heart you will experience
some type of pain.
Three months of surfing the Internet for information
on pregnancy and childbirth, ultimately dreading
the needles. Three months of nervous excitement,
perusing shelves of books filled with baby names….
Jermichael—if it’s a boy, already dictated by the father-to-be.
If it is a girl….
Katherine—too plain, Imani—hmmmm—means “faith”—maybe,
Simone—sounds elegant and full of finesse, maybe
If I change the spelling, Symone…nooo……Cimone…..ahhh!!
Because now all of that is gone.
I am like Demeter crying out
for Persephone. But my fury
is felt within, locked up in the inner depths
of my soul. My spirit is withered.
Will spring ever thrive in my womb again?
Will it be barren and cold like winter>
How can I go on living with the emptiness
left where you once breathed life?
My precious Cymon.
(originally written in 1998)