I Went for a Walk at Sunrise

This morning I went for a walk at sunrise.  I wore my thin, lime green sweats and no bra.  My lion's mane was still roaring from last night's dreams.   I exhaled a vapor like mist over water.  It was that quiet.
I tried to take a picture of it, but the sunrise was never for you. It was always for me. I wanted to fold her up and give her to you. So she could ease your black grief with her colors.

For you, my friend, who has lost her only baby.  Just yesterday it happened.
I held my vigil behind you in the court room.  I could only see your neck and the twist of golden haired bun perched there at the nape.  They were choking you with recounts of the last year.  I knew you could barely breath, but you stayed for your Bon-boy.  You held fast to your spot, and would not let anyone take it from you.  If this is where his mother sits, it is your spot.  His father did not show up.  But you were there, holding space for your son laying tribute to his childhood with your tears.
The judge talked for over an hour.  He could at least offer you an explanation.  But later you told me you wished he'd just shut up and get it over with.
I tried to hold my body perfectly still, as a soldier would.  I mirrored the sterile walls, the right angles of perfectly aligned squares, their red mahogany wood and limp American flag.  All spoke of an authority greater than ours, more powerful than the agony of birth's push.  I was with you then too.  I held your hand as you clenched your entire muscle body in one effort.  The only time you had ever worked so hard in harmony with your own heart.  Afraid, yes.  Afraid to let him come and yet throbbing to meet him, and I whispered into your neck,
"Let him come..."

Our foreheads pressed together in knowing. I can see the white in your knuckles squeezing.  I can hear the milk of my voice trying to ease your heat, the acid of life burning.
You got him here.  You held him.  You nursed him.  You cooed into his face.  You were his first love.
I still have the hospital bracelet in my jewelry box.  The one they give to the Dads.  They gave it to me.  I am sorry he is gone.  Because I remember how we felt when he was new.
http://chrysalisbreak.blogspot.com/2014/08/andrews-snooze-button.html

It is a possibility for every alcoholic mother, to loose our children.
I was very close to losing mine.  The reason is fair.  We know this.
The juxtaposition we are faced with:
"If this is me, they deserve better. This child would be better off without me." versus the thin hope,
"Can I become more? Can I give this child what he needs?
After everything I've done...all of my negligence, my black-outs, can I get off this runaway train?
Can my glazed and absent eyes be replaced with a warmth worthy of this child?
I exhaled booze into his button nose making memories of queezy uncertainty...and worse...so much worse.
How can this be mended?  How can I ask this of him?  He is so innocent."

But this I have learned, my friend.  No matter what, we are their mothers.
Whether we stay, or leave, if we are absent or present, we will affect our children.
This affect will last for our lifetime and theirs.

So now begins the nebulous and tedious task of forgiving mother.
Both the one you have been and the one you came from.
Every mother who's best was not enough...which turns out to be every single one of us.
Somehow.  No matter how much we love, we will fall short.

That is why our children are born in to a world of music, of sunsets, of sleep and hot chocolate.
They are born into a place so vast that it makes up for a mother's singular human self.
Our babies will seek and find comfort outside of us.
They will find it in the warm sun, in a prayer, a hot bath tub, and a long talk with their best friend.
They may also find it where we did, in alcohol, in drugs, in running.
They may know the screaming of their own soul as it races away from life down the highway to adventure, to romance to poetry straight into the guts of their own story.
How can we deny them this?  How can I tell them not to take risks, not to challenge the status quo, not to be what I was?   I ripped my own heart out.  I needed to.  I examined it thoroughly.
Now I have delicately placed it back inside this body, this soul which is finally at peace.
For all of the possibilities of what our children will need, we must forgive ourselves.
We must put our heart back, so we will be ready.

I hope your baby will know you someday.
I know he can be better for it.  Your life is rich with heart ache.  The soil is good.
All the intentions you gave birth to on that day I held your white knuckles are not a waste.
He will need you someday, somehow.

I pray that when he comes looking, your heart is thick and juicy and thrust deep into the ground.