An Open Letter To The Woman I Was

I've been staring into the mirror a lot,

turning to the side, admiring

the subtle new curve of the hips, the roundness

of my shoulders, the flatness of my chest.

Hmm--scratch that last one.

But mostly I just watch the curve of my belly

where the muscles have not yet figured out

there's no baby in there anymore.

And I tear up. Because there's no baby in there anymore.

You'd think I'd have been happy to have left our pregnancy behind.

But I'm not.

I want to feel his kicks from inside again.

I want to hear his heartbeat on ultrasound.

I want to go back to the hospital. I did go back, actually.

Because before he slept in my arms,

before the onsies and the diapers,

before we tried and failed at nursing,

before the swaddles and the mitties,

before bottle, after bottle, after bottle,

before we were pacing the floor, blind tired,

he was on the inside, and I wasn't afraid.

I am neither the expectant mother, nor the woman I was before.

I am somehow both a hollow shell

and an empty vessel waiting to be poured into.

I don't want to be the woman I was before.

But I want to go back to not being afraid.

The woman I was before wasn't afraid.

She wasn't afraid of parking lots,

or pools,

or tripping on the stairs,

or car accidents,

or strangers.

She wasn't exhausted by fear, at least not all the time.

She went into that C-section completely unafraid,

and came out the other side a jagged mess of broken nerve endings.

Hon, you didn't know what fear was. Didn't know the meaning of the word.

Until they put that baby in our hands.

You weren't fat.

You weren't tired.

You weren't stressed out.

You weren't broke.

You were content, quiet, creative, full of potential and laden with time.

You were also untethered, listless, blowing in the breeze,

a mechanical automaton, blindly constructing your own coffin

as you quietly did your work, paying bills

and waiting to die.

You were a hollow shell waiting to be poured into.

And he poured into you.

All of his little cries yet to be cried.

All of his little smiles yet to be smiled.

I just wanted to tell you this in case you were wondering

how we ended up.

I'm sorry you're not here. You've gone.

Actually, I'm not sorry you've gone.

Because I'm complete now.

Afraid, yes

but complete.

And when they finally pour my clay into that coffin you were building

I will go into it slowly, unhurried by ambition and anxiety.

I will go into it quietly and content

with the sound of his little cries the last thing I hear.