Of all of my children, the one I treasure most lives in my heart.
She is simple and sweet, and not as grand as the ones I have carried before.
There have been strong and handsome sons, for whom I’ve held visions of Ivy League schools. Each had a hidden talent, an exquisite beauty that only I could see.
They have lived in my heart, but carried in memory of what was to be.
Their births were projected in May, June, and September, not to mention those whose arrival I could no longer count.
Oh, if the sum of my children could be manifest now,
I could fill a small town with dancers, chefs, and artists.
My refrigerator carries no crayon art to Mom.
My home echoes of solitude; no demands from without.
Yet I live with an image carried closer than my breath,
Coming alive through dreams, but never enough to satiate; only intensifying the longing from within.
The one who lives yet in my heart wears only the wings of an angel.
She is a spark of potential yet to be realized.
Will I bring her into being, pulling spirit into flesh;
or will she bring me into being, pulling flesh into spirit?
Will her image transform into the wrinkles and gray hair of the wise woman I am becoming?
Oh, I am a mother. Perhaps not filling a town, a house, or even my own vision.
But I am giving birth, every moment I stand naked in my truth, denying neither myself nor the hope of the one yet to come.
Yes, of all my children, the one I cherish the most, I have never been without.