All the way along it seemed
the knowing part of her
had gone ahead to grieving.
She'd mourned the passing of
the babies even as she'd held
them, pressed in sleep against
the cradle of her flesh.
The mourning made room in her
for the toddlers who followed,
always in and out of arms,
falling down and getting up.
And for the lanky, less-certain
children who came next, asking
questions, moving into other
yards, and schoolrooms.
She was awed now to see them
coming through the door, taller
than she, full of ideas and
secrets, hardly needing to lean.
Still, she missed the others
with their rounder faces and
their clearly reaching arms.
There are times when she'd
have given anything to have
them back, for one long
rocking or a summer day.
Love was uncomplicated then,
the give and take as natural
as breathing in and out.
-- Deb Cooper