I think of her, in the darkness.
A chubby cheek on her chest, a chair she excitedly bought with a swollen belly. One she’s now all too familiar with.
I think of her and all the noise, the noise that would tell her she was doing it wrong, have her nodding along like she didn’t rock him, cuddle him or feed him to sleep.
I think of her and how she knew her baby seemed much needier than others, she knew. And so did he. That his sensitive soul needed to be held, just like he would do for others one day, he knew.
I think of her and the time he just wouldn’t stop crying, this baby now a toddler afraid of monsters under the bed. I think of how she snapped and the way he looked at her, how she wondered if she was the monster now. How she felt like she had nothing left to give, but she kept giving anyway.
I think of her, how he lived the closest to her heart, and when they met it made sense for him to still crave being close to it.
I’m not ashamed to say I still sit in the darkness, only for 5 minutes, stroking his hair as he drifts off.
I used to think about all the things I could get done as we sat in our chair, and now, on his bed, I wonder if my fingertips will hold this memory.
It was so noisy back then, but I think of her in the dark.
How it all became quiet when he softened against her.
How you can actually hear silence.
And when you listen to it, it can drown out all the noise.
***
Have you shopped the early motherhood poetry collection yet? Click here