Memories for Meg

Perhaps I was never your mother,
Except at the beginning, when the cavity
Of my body expanded
To hold your life within my life.
It felt right.

I wanted to be your mother,
I bid you into this world.
But I was afraid ­
I did not know how to give then,
I was afraid to be a woman,
And looking at that naked little body
With exquisite skin and thin patch of hair,
I panicked at your urgent needs
I did not understand.

The minute you were born they took you away,
Before I could hold you, before I got to know you.
They wheeled me away to a sterile room,
While your father left to make phone calls,
And I lay alone, isolated.

I was afraid of you.
I did not know how to be a mother,
How could I love you?
They brought you to my room like a stranger,
As if you belonged to them.

Then I held you to my breast.
And knew my milk was something right,
Bringing a wave of comfort to us both.
You stayed alive and thrived on what I gave you.
What a wonder.

I carried you home, you lived with us,
A beautiful girl
Who was mine when I carried her
Or when she suckled, or when she laughed.
Your big, crazy grin
Embraced the folly of the world
With a life of your own.

­ Sally Clay
Mother's Day 1998

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