twoandneveranymore

I'm spun black, caught in my own mad web.  For watching my own beautiful children grow stuffs my heart in a jar.

Everyday, my eyes drink in their small miracles.  Skin stretching over bones.  Minds flying.  Fingers carving letters on paper.  My lids fluttering from the magic.  Until they sleep -- and I push my face greedily into their hair.   Breathe deeply, searching for babyness -- round faces, rolled thighs, black, shining eyes.  Reality slaps without mercy as I stand in line at the grocery store, a baby-in-bucket-mother next-in-line.  A pregnant-bellied-woman washing her hands next to me at the airport.   White heat-rising, my web pulls tight.  I see my selfish self clearly.

My twoandneveranymore children.  A phrase someone I adore used the day she realized her two, were indeed her last.   For some it's oneandneveranymore.  Others four.  And some, none.  No matter the number, the day appears.  And defines - carving lines thick and blue as veins.  And brings with it either a wave of relief, or wall of grief.  And the wonder that our days are indeed racing past us like rain.  Mytwoandneveranymore.  I swallow the words like stones.  Mytwoandneveranymore.  Mytwoandneveranymore.  My heart pushes against its own walls, sharp and thin.

I push the dull ache down to my toes, only to feel it rise bit-by-bit all day, then settle in my heart as I lie my head down at night.  The realness of their growth, a blue flame, singeing my skin.  I'm ablaze from the sheer heat of needing to be a young mom again.  Of wanting their babyness back.

Twoandneveranymore.

I mend with the truth.  Long zagging stitches.  Filling the holes from the inside out - pushing-into, stitching-up, guarding the raw spaces.  And let their smallness slip away.  I ink the smell, the feel, the memory of baby deep inside - a ball of white light hidden under my skin.  It glows.  Its warmth, a reminder to be grateful.  

My twoandneveranymore.  I am getting there.  One day at a time.