When I have slowed,
enough to give this little life inside me a thought,
I have wondered if he is my last.
The last breathing, thriving, kicking child I will house inside me this lifetime.
A spontaneous, low-level ache of defeat settles in.
Intermittent spurts of panic surfacing over the lack of control
A woman has over her body's ability to yield life.
To will her womb to hold on a little longer...
I have loved holding life within me.
Glowed stronger with every kick.
Felt more beautiful wearing this rounded form than when I shed it.
Been in awe of the honour I know has been bestowed me.
Is he my last?
A passing season of joy, a mere day away?
I want to know. I wish I had a way --
of preparing,
of bracing myself against the loss,
of re-savouring every last along this nine-month road:
Flutters, kicks, movements, sensations, contemplations...
Mulling them over at leisure until satisfied,
and then telling them goodbye.
If he is my last,
then time has run out.
The day has arrived;
A last day before the last birthing of a the last baby I will bear.
All of the joys I have felt will become memory,
dimming as the years go by.
Yes, old delights will make way for new:
the freshness of things first taught and learned,
growth and discovery;
new understanding and expanded love.
But I will still mourn
the passing
of this last
beginning.
