I was, I am a mother

I held you in my arms for ten hours.
It wasn’t long enough.
But the nurses told me they had to take you away.
I could barely get the words out.
I’m not ready. Just a little bit longer. Please.
My husband was sitting in the chair beside me.
Hunched over, his eyes were red and puffy
and his lips were trembling something fierce.
And he was rubbing his hands, over and over,
a habit I hadn’t seen since the day I got into a car accident
and they had to call him at work.
When the drugs wore off,
I woke up to him rubbing his hands raw.
Today, he was rubbing them so hard,
I was surprised I didn’t see any bone.
He got up to put his hand over mine.
It’s time, honey.
Our little girl.
Mere moments of air when we had already imagined a lifetime with her.
I had tried my best to keep her in,
to keep her safe and warm in her cocoon,
but my belly wasn’t having it.
When they delivered her, I was so sure I heard her cry.
The doctor who delivered her said softly but firmly
that our little girl made no sound at all.
I wanted to scream, A mother always knows!
What did he know about motherhood?
My grief was almost too much to carry that first year.
So much so that when people referred
to my pregnancy, my being a mother, or my baby girl
in the past tense, I corrected them.
I sometimes still do.

*

Lesson

I was 12. You had left your door slightly ajar,
so I stopped to watch you, careful not to disturb the floorboards
or make a sound. You sat at your dresser mirror,
brushing your long, dark hair. I hoped one day,
mine would be just as long and beautiful. But today,
something was wrong. You were brushing so hard that clumps of hair
were gathering around your feet.
You finally stopped, slammed your brush down,
and, to my horror, struck the right side of your face.
It went red immediately. I covered my mouth,
hoping you didn’t hear me gasp. Idiot, you said through gritted teeth.
And I could hear the pain in your voice.
Grabbing your favorite red lipstick, you angrily
swipe it across your lips, only to smear it off
with disdain moments later.
Last week, you brought a boy home
and said you had never been happier. Mama’s brows
were furrowed, and Papa’s face was wrinkled, but I smiled.
You were happy. I remember how you
had your hair curled that day, how the soft ringlets bounced
when you spoke, how they framed your face.
You kissed me on the cheek when I said you looked pretty.
I don’t know what’s going on. If I should run in
and put my arms around you. If your cheek needs some ice.
If I need to call someone.
You start to cry, grabbing the sweater draped across your chair
to bury your mouth in, a feeble attempt at drowning
out the wounded sounds you made. I don’t think I can
ever forget them. I run to my bedroom, my chest tightening,
and curl up underneath the blankets to cry. I don’t know why
it hurts so. But I hope one day you’ll tell me.

*

Andrea Maxine Recto is a Spanish-Filipino writer and poet living in Manila. Her poetry explores the themes of womanhood, grief, love, darkness, and introspection. She was recently published in TurnAround’s 14th Purple Poetry Book, with more forthcoming in the Santa Clara Review and elsewhere.