the fragility of motherhood

Like the way fog drapes over the mountains and lies heavy in the belly of the valley,

or the first blooms on a tree that glisten in morning light,

this thirst, unquenchable in its need to capture the ever fleeting.

Like the way he says Mommy,

the way his brother can talk to me for hours,

or the way his sister believes I can fix anything.

I watch each ounce of baby melt away, it’s become almost nonexistent on my oldest, and in its place an independence that I am so proud of I can’t breathe.

I remember the fragile way she felt in my arms, see the fragility of my own arms when I look back at pictures,

like if I moved too fast a crack might start in the motherhood, maybe along my shoulders and across my back.

It might fall away in small flakes as I trek through the house at night for late night changings,

or break off all together in chunks the longer I’m away from my baby.