Loren Paulsson

The time you grew unseen, Known but theoretically, Dependent and not guaranteed, Felt only by your mother. Hours your mother labored And brought you to the world, Hair, forehead, chin, one arm And then your voice. Weeks of embodied care Passed between toothless gums To the tune of infant breathing, Walking, rocking, singing, praying. Nights measured by a tiny Body's needs, By how much heart it takes to clean Each mustard-colored stain, When time, contingency, and choice Walked so close that they Forgot autonomy And started to resemble love. Previous  §  Next

There are few clearer breakings in  of otherness than parenthood. The blood and smell and frailty of life,  when caring becomes a constant expectation  instead of something  one feels good about on weekends. I realized I wasn't sure we'd all survive.  So I would wake and listen  or scrutinize the monitor  for signs our oldest was still breathing.  And I started to be grateful for the person  our daughter's presence formed me into. Previous  §  Next