distended hearts.

nobody told me.

I watch friends celebrate the
two pink lines and
rearrange their rooms and
their lives for
the induction of
new life
but nobody tells them that
research on breathing and
bradley methods is all
well and good,
preparation for dilation and
delivery is useful and helpful, but
what comes next and then next and
then next after that?

nobody told me
what to expect when my
child says that
the world is not
a safe place anymore, that
she feels unloved and unwanted, that
she wishes she were
never born
i hold her and
comfort her with words that
spill from an empty well.

i watch families celebrate the
milestones that give
scrapbooks and yearbooks
their stories to tell,
the academic and athletic years
the trophy and certificate years as
children pass through the
rippling and dancing creek
of childhood,

but nobody tells them
about the heartbreak years and
the deception years, the
wading years and the
drowning years;
deep waters of fear and
doubt, of stumbling feet and
fumbling hearts
of weakened resolve and
the worrying furrows that
burrow into your brow, your
heavy-laden back,
the breaking of
your very being.

nobody told me.

these children,
bone of my bone and
blood of my soul;
i pretend to carry the rod
of discipline and the staff of
truth while knowing that they
can crush me with
their words
their wills
the wily missteps of their
invincible youth

they can.
they will.
they do.

nobody told me that
the sleeplessness of
infancy and the
patience required of
toddlers are but the
footpaths we meander as
we train for the great
climb and eventual summit
of everest (and each
child is their very
own mountain, making
some of us triathletes as we
simultaneously surmount
multiple heights with
diverse terrains amidst
various weather systems)...

why do we only
share the pictures with
happy faces and only
tell the stories with
happy endings?
how many distended hearts
suffer through the struggles of
relationship alone because of
pride and guilt and
disappointment felt,
hopes that have died and
fears realized, for which we
withdraw and withhold the
broken years and the
hurting years and the
hidden truths about
divergent choice, your
child's (my child's!)
intrinsic right
to be wrong,
to do wrong.

we once chose, and
so they do the same, but
it is the missteps that
mirror our own failures and
regrets that pierce our
hearts with the
sharpest blade.

and so another sun sets and
i crawl into this lonely bed as
tears fall from honest eyes (for
the truth has a way of
breaking our delusions and
dilutions of how wistful and
watery we wished
life to be) and
i am reminded that
the world is not
a safe place anymore, that
these children (bone of
my bone and
blood of my soul!) concern
themselves not with
whether i feel
unloved or unwanted, that
some days, i too perhaps wish
that i were
never born.
​
i long to be held and
find a safe comfort, but
tonight i find only
empty words drawn from
an empty well.