Writing

The Babinski Seed

Fragile and fleeting
Their growth shadows my own
I look up and there are lines
In my face
Lines I’ve earned
Lines I do not want erased
By now my neuroticism has softened
By way of experience
I do not wash their hands
Or clean their ears
With such precision
But it happened in an instant
Truly, a moment

The days I longed to end
The Sweatpant days, unshowered
Smelling of spit up, tears, and defeat
They’re gone forever
And like any good human
I romanticize them completely
I want the smells back
The coos
The first steps
The satisfied face
unlatching from my nameless breast
at 3:14am when it was just me and you
alone in this big world.

It’s never coming back
It’s never happening again
There is grief in these words
In a well rested historical count of the first days of motherhood,
8 years later,
I will leave out the depression, the fear, the anguish
As I should.

Tonight I will only tell you of the 5 tiny branches
that clasped my index finger in the moonlight.

An instinct, only a reflex they say
But between you and me
Your toes no longer curl at my touch
Now you can say my name
And we haven’t shared a bed in years

Running on 8 hours of sleep
Clean and fully dressed,
Suddenly I am the sprouted seed
Dreaming of the day you placed me
In that sweet, fertile soil.

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