For Evan

Mother,

Safety, protection, strength, comfort,

And I failed you before you were born.

I could not protect the one before you.

I tried, but the doctors said my stick was wrong and theirs was right.

I punished my womb for you,

Punched my stomach again and again,

But no amount of cajoling could fix my failure.

And when you appeared,

I accepted help.

I took my pills,

I deposited the other medicine,

I crossed my legs,

And I waited.

At first improbable,

Then possible,

Almost cautiously optimistic,

And finally you put down roots, and I nurtured you.

You were mine,

Borrowed for a small amount of time,

And then you would become your own.

And I failed you again before you were born.

I tried. I swear I tried.

I ate spicy food.

I walked to the moon and back.

I asked for Daddy’s help… but got nothing.

I tweaked, twiddled, twisted, to get you out.

But nothing.

And so they hooked me up, and downloaded medicine into me.

Something… small… painful… little… and then gone.

They pulled you from me,

I wasn’t even there.

I failed you as you were born.

And so we went home.

And I fed you, and you were still hungry,

And you cried,

And your fists pummeled the air of an imaginary fertile womb,

Of an imaginary breast filled with milk… not mine.

And I failed you as you were alive.

And I failed you in your first year when I didn’t hold you enough.

And I failed you in your second year when I was preoccupied with moving.

And I failed you in your third year when I left to discover pieces of me.

And I failed you yesterday when you asked me to sit next to you,

And I will fail you tomorrow when you need something from me that I cannot find to give.

Mother,

Safety, protection, strength, comfort,

And love.

Enough love that through all these failures you are here, fed, clothed, housed, amused, delighted, and loved.

On this I will not fail you.