I breathe her name like a prayer:
Eliza. Our beacon of hope,
my rainbow. A year since she kicked
within my womb: my lockdown baby,
the lighthouse we all navigated to –
born into water and slotting into
our home, family, hearts.
This year I have written
endless poetry; poems pouring
from my fingers, tapped into
a phone and scrawled
onto pages. I’ve swung through
a pendulum of emotions: spanning
exhaustion, joy and loss.
Countless hours spent
overwhelmed –
I am stretched
to breaking point,
always telling someone
to wait: the weary guilt
in my voice palpable.
Yesterday, I sat at the table
while my sons wrapped cuddly
toys and made cards for their
sister’s first birthday. My oldest
(who I’ve let down over and over,
failed him in a myriad of ways
but somehow his heart blooms:
he forgives, easily) turns to me,
confidently proclaims
“She’s so lucky that you’re
her mummy” and I am undone.
Undeserving of this praise,
I hold him close;
breathe in blind faith.
