You were born into my life, not from my womb but my heart,
your nine-year-old anger at first contracting,
then pushing against the unknown.
You ripped the fabric of my certainty, bloodied my serenity.

I labored long—
wanting you, resenting you
for the loss of my life
as it had been.

It was not a doctor's hand that slapped you into breathing.
It was my hand that insisted on a truce,
demanded you inhale the love surrounding you,
hugged you tentatively and absorbed your anger.

It was then,
in the struggle,
that you began to breathe
                        
and called me Mom.

© by Bonnie Schupp.
Used with the author's permission.