2020-09-24T01:19:55-07:00May 23rd, 2013|Parenthood|


Let me tell you about those months
when you lay like a leaf
in the centre of me.

About the masala dosas you craved
at strange hours
and how the young Indian waiter
at the 24-hour dosa place
asked me why I ate so late, alone,
and the look on his face
when I said I wasn’t

About all the books I swallowed
to stave off morning sickness,
words piling on top of you,
like snowflakes.

Do you remember
how we sobbed
about the civil war story
or the French one
whose words we sipped,
like sherry.

About the way your brother asked
can I cuddle in
and I thought he was talking to me
until he went under the covers
and put his cheek
on my belly.

And the time you waved
on the ultrasound
in the funny way your dad and I wave
to each other,
like squirrels flirting.

I don’t mean to rush things,
but in case I forget to say it,
I will be old one day
and my skin will hang thin
like a sheet off my nose
and my bones will have yellowed
and folded into each other.

But don’t be sad.

Look closer,
I will be the colour
of a cocoon,
and the sound
of quiet.

Take my hand,
I will remind you
not to be afraid,
for it will simply
be my turn
to live
of you.

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