On Sleeplessness

It’s dark. There’s the stirring once again, then cries that pierce the stillness. I don’t move. My physicality revolts —my limbs, my eyes, all heavy. I’d give anything to sleep.

My bed in that moment is perfect, but now I am floating through the air. The darkness releases its grip and I find your arms outstretched for mine. I pull you close as I always will, this body of my body.

You know exactly what to do, as if we both remember how it used to be, how I feel it should be forever. Together we grew something wild, a miracle I carried with me and each day now I slowly release. It’s a cruel truth that someday you won’t cry out for me, that someday you should find your home in the world.

But will my body feel like a stranger?

When it dries up and returns to myself,

will my heart hear its phantom beats?

Yet, I am still me in the re-making. A mother is a self on the road to somewhere new. And so, here I am as a journeying pilgrim. Alone in the sunless morning, we enter our silent sanctuary. To take and eat. To be exactly what we need to be.

I surrender to the fleeting infinity with you.