A Lullaby with Teeth: notes on mothering

no one told me

you could miss someone

standing right in front of you,

miss who they were

before their becoming.

i watch them learn something (really get it)

and like that,

the version I knew

five seconds ago

is gone.

the twins have eyes

like shape-shifters.

green when wild,

brown when quiet,

hazel when mine.

my oldest has eyes

so deep and brown I swear

they see the bits of my soul

i haven’t even dared to know yet.

i try to remember them,

but they won’t hold still.

i try to remember

the smell of sleep

(not out of sentiment,

but survival) because

i can’t imagine life

without remembering

how they used to curl into me:

a foot in my ribs,

a hand reaching,

a sleep so heavy with warmth,

i try to remember if the heat

was from me or

a baby or

the blanket.

like before they were earthside.

so with white knuckles i’ll cling

to a smell

while i

learn to love

the ring on the table from

half finished milk cups,

the smell of outside air

on a sweaty forehead,

the paper rip of opening

a bandaid for a skinned knee.

but sometimes,

when the light hits just right,

you’re not “them” anymore,

you’re just

you.

you with your hazel eyes and your footprints in my ribs,

you who changed names before you could speak,

you who are three people, and still not all of who you’ll be,

and you are alive

in ways

i didn’t plan for.

bigger, louder, laughing

yet i still miss

the weight of you

becoming.

i try to hold the truth that watching you become

means watching you disappear.

watching me disappear.

i see it in the way you study

my face now,

you’re learning the lyrics

before I have the melody.

the ache no one

warned me about:

loving

so hard

that every day

is a goodbye

to someone

i am

in love with,

someone

becoming.