Everytime I pass the street, my eyes linger on the pedestrian bridge.

It's fairly new.

And wouldn't be there if it wasn't for what happened at the corner.

A woman and her baby, or maybe she was looking after this baby, they were standing, waiting to cross, when a car took a turn too sharp, too fast, too whatever, and the baby was gone.

For months, maybe years after, the street lamp was covered in stuffed animals.

But now there's nothing but my memory of a baby I never met and a bridge I'm glad exists.

I wonder what her name was.

I wonder if anyone thinks about her when they cross the bridge.

The pens I went
to bed with left
streaks of ink
on my sheets and
pillowcases. We
soiled these
sheets with
unleashed intimacy,
with authenticity,
with validation,
with imagination
and creativity.

And when we
finished, when we
had jotted thoughts
as clear as we
could, we drifted
off to sleep. When
I woke from my
dreams, I would look
at the product of
this conception,
full of pride.

Then I’d look down
and see the blots
across my body,
my bed, my sheets,
and chuckle at the
mess it takes to
create these darlings.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)

my name is life and i
love you

i'm the creation of
creation

please be faithful baby
please be faithful

let me take you to the
place of my soul:

deep night
palm trees
silver ocean

my name is life and i love you
baby

This season of life is full of simplicity
predictability
normalcy
it’s a little boy about to turn 4 who asks Mama to play with him and read him the same books over and over again
birthday party planning, holiday coordinating
co parenting changing,
his stubborn side showing,
refusing to eat meals and pushing as far as he can
but also so so sweet when he tells me
“Mommy, you’re beautiful”
“Mom I want a hug”
“Mom will you sit by me?”
toddler talks and stuttering over his words because he can’t get them out fast enough
Sesame Street on repeat and little boy jokes
daycare drop offs and after work pick ups
bedtime routines and storybooks
Single child syndrome, center of attention
this season of life is so simple
motherhood now is like holding onto the baby things while also helping him do the big boy stuff,
independence blossoming
I always wondered when we would get here
past the diaper days
the breastfeeding
the restless nights
and teething
it’s all so bittersweet
My only baby
maybe my only baby
through ***** ups and scoldings he still wants to hold my hand and be carried by Mama
this season of life is all about childhood for an almost 4 year old little boy

How can there be a space left
That was never filled,
Except with expectation.
The wonder of a face
Setting eyes on this place,
For the very first time.
A name waiting to be uttered
An identity ready to be claimed.


You lay in starched sheets
Surrounded by cheerful pink walls,
Waiting to be discharged;
After a labour that brought forth
The remnants of a life.
While at home I waited
Wanting to know your pain
To share what was still ours;
Our son lay laughing in bed
Unaware of his own small loss.


Then, like a pilot
Over the radio, as the plane
Leaves its fragile flight,
Last words of someone already dead;
The sound of an infants cry
Came across the airwaves
Of our baby monitor;
I know a trick of frequency
Picked up from a nearby house,
But never heard before
Or since, such coincidence;
As though to say goodbye.

There once was a tiny bundle of cells that grew in my womb
without the assistance of fertility medications or ovulation testing
a surprise spontaneous occurrence of the first sparks of Life
a product of the kind of ******* that happens on a honeymoon
between newlyweds full of bliss, lust, and hope

My womb once thought uninhabitable to such an occurrence
boarded a plane home five days later
cradling this new truth-
The Honeymoon Baby

Weeks would pass before my womb would begin to betray its secret
3 days late- nothing
5 days late- nothing
8 days late- the little blue plus sign and a whisper from deep in me-
“You aren’t broken?”

For several hours my womb and I jealously guarded this knowledge
My new husband not known for his enthusiasm wouldn’t share in my joy
So I sat alone feeding my hungry heart on now debunked beliefs
“You AREN’T broken!”

Having gorged myself to the point of bursting on a meal years in the making
I looked with wet eyes to my then partner of more than half a decade
“we made a honeymoon baby; I’m not broken.”
No, he wouldn’t share my joy.

His eyes turned to windows in the days that would follow
They screamed their disgust into the wide open parts of me
as pointedly and with as much passion as his mouth could ever muster
It was then that I began to silently pray the baby away

My silence only increased his vitriol until with a blast he climaxed in his rage
and I felt the cold of the recently adorned wedding band against my neck
as the hands which had held mine so softly so often pinned me to the door
Finally my silent prayers gave way to a singular scream
“I ******* hate you and I hate your child inside of me!”

My womb cried to hear the prayer spoken
She cried so long and so loud that she began to bleed
She heaved and sobbed her rage into rivers of blood that wouldn’t stop for weeks
and earthquakes of cramps that would rock me to my core
The unstoppable current of tears and blood carried the translucent sac
that housed the had been Honeymoon Baby into the ***** porcelain bowl
The baby I prayed away that would never speak whispered up
“You are broken.”

The honeymoon was over.
I hadn’t hated him before that.
Six years later to the day we signed divorce papers.

Good night my little wee one
It's time to close your eyes
If you'll but wait till morning
You'll get a big surprise
The sun will smile and greet you
In ever changing skies
For mom and daddy love you
Your the apple of our eyes