newly born.

Dear, mother self —

How does it feel being newly born?

Do you see your eyes on your child? I do. The way they downward slope. The way they hypnotize. It is a picture within a picture within a picture.

Do you see your hair? It quietly falls out, mimicking the way you tiptoe past his room in the night. But you smile, because it’s part of your story together. And because your body is brave.

Do you see your hands? I do. They hold his hands at night. They brush his hair and rock and sway and love. They catch your tears in private. They’re home and hearth.

Do you feel your spine? I do. It stands taller than before. It carries him and you. Then. Now. It’s your rain stick — grounding, soothing, enduring.

Do you feel your elbows? I do. They quiver and shake sometimes. Fear causes an imbalance and you grab them, stabilizing yourself with yourself. Then you remember their namesake and you laugh. It helps to remember where you came from.

Do you feel your legs? I do. It’s the stucco foundation of the brick house you pass on your walk. It grows and creates life. You hold yourself, your child and the world together. A home spinning on its axis is a lullaby.

Do you see yourself? I do. And so does he. And we marvel.