For years I couldn’t breathe.
I loved you –
But my breath was caught in me.
I held you tight as you sobbed.
I loved you –
I wanted so bad to love you more.
To have time to love you.
To have lungs to breathe love into us.
We were bound so close together.
So I couldn’t really see you,
Only the parts of you.
Finally the family broke.
The crosswinds became too much
I felt blown this way and that way.
Catching myself.
Chaotic.
Shallow breathing.
Excited, unsure.
Slightly mad.
The four became the one. The three. The other.
I lost my footing again.
I found myself and lost myself.
I tried to keep breathing for you –
You two small ones whose breaths I began.
I kept my rhythms for you.
Slowly a different pattern of breath emerged.
One week on and one week off.
I found myself.
I found my breath.
One week on – breathe in.
One week off – breathe out.
My lungs expanded and contracted.
The daily hugs, the cooking, the holding.
And the other week where I could be young again.
Now it’s Friday again.
I help you and your brother pack your things –
Your special moccasins.
We drive towards your other house.
It’s been a lovely week, I say.
Marking the end, the transition.
I get ready to breathe out.
Back at my house, I look through your rooms –
And pick up your clothes and crafts and empty cups.
I slow.
I exhale.
The axis has shifted.
My gaze softens.
I hear my slow breath once more.