I tried to slow it down

On Motherhood: I was too caught up in counting your weeks that I forgot to count my years.

Time feels different now. Months in their whole parts have slipped by.

Or maybe it’s my memory that’s slipping. 

I can barely remember a time when the only heartbeat inside of me was my own.

A time when I’d touch my stomach and it was quiet and still. Now, a tiny being reaches out, pressing back against my palm.

“I’m here, buddy,” I say. “I will always be here.”

Time. I tried to slow it down. 

I exhaled and eight months went by.

When the winter trees were growing new life, so was I. I’d watch the buds bloom into blossoms until everything went green.

In the early days of spring, I’d lie in the grass with the dandelions, watching them turn into wishing flowers. I picked them all and wished for you to grow. Wished for you to be strong. Wished for you to be happy.

I tried to slow it down.

When the house was dark and everyone was asleep, I’d watch the moon move across the sky until my eyes blurred. I fell into thoughts about the unknown. About space. About you.

All of this organized chaos that exists so far outside of myself. 

All the things we know and all the things we don’t.

I thought of that very same chaos that exists within me, in the depths of your newly formed existence.

All the things I know and all the things I don’t. 

I’ve heard your heartbeat, but I have yet to know how you love.

I know your mind is forming, but I don’t yet know the sorts of things that keep you up at night.

Time. I tried to slow it down.

But then summer arrived before I could pack away our thrift store coats.

Night after night, I wait for the sun to fall behind the mountain and count the fireflies in the blue dark along with your little kicks. The air is warm and damp and I wonder where June went.

I turned thirty-five, but I hardly noticed. I was too caught up in counting your weeks that I forgot to count my years. 

July. Four weeks left. I take you swimming in the cold rivers flowing from the mountain and feel you move against the current.

I’m still trying to slow it down.

I sit on the floor of your room and fold your clothes until they fit into the palm of my hand. Three perfect folds. 

One. Two. Three.

Until my fingers move in their own rhythm like the sea.

One. Two. Three.

Until the light in your room has gone from gold to blue.

One. Two. Three.

I’m trying to slow it down.