The Mirror

I keep finding myself standing in front of the mirror--in front of anything that holds a reflection--staring into my own eyes, trying to find myself again. I don't know who I am now; I'm a mother but there's no baby. I'm still a little bit pregnant, but there's no baby. I'm still alive, but there's no baby. I can't process it. I can't make it make sense. When you came into my life you started making me into someone else. Now that you're gone, I can't be who I was, and I don't want to be who I am. I don't want to be a grieving mother. I don't want to be this new person with sad eyes, the breasts full of milk that won't nourish you, the empty arms clutching the blanket that still holds the faintest echo of how you smelled, the deflated belly. I don't want this in-between body; I don't want this in-between life. I just want my son.