from the blog.

Why Am I Keeping You? (A Poem)

I entered the spare bedroom yesterday to check on you.
I could barely open the door.
You were still in the disheveled heap I created since I stopped using that room after night weaning.
I pretend you don’t exist so I don’t have to make any decisions regarding your future.
So many times I just opened the door and threw something at you: clothes that no longer fit the girls, a swing they never used, bouncy chairs that ceased to hold their squirmy bodies months ago.
Incorporating every new item I refuse to deal with, you grow with time.
Just like the girls, your growth exploded at first and has inversely slowed down with their increased mobility.
I wonder why I keep you.
Do I think I will use you in the future?
I am 40, soon to be 41 years old.
My body barely survived my pregnancy with the girls.
What makes me think that the two embryos vacationing in the Pacific should be used—surely they would be the only reason I would have any use for you now.
I think I should let you go.
Maybe, I should sell you to supplement the income I am not bringing in.
Staying at home with the girls.
It wouldn’t be much but it would be something.
Perhaps I should give you away.
The way parts of you were given to me.
Freely and with love.
I am not ready yet.
I am not ready to part with the hope that our family might still grow.
Even though I know it won’t.
One day I will organize you.
Clothes too small will either be made into quilts or donated.
Items fit for a child that are content and incapable of moving so freely will be untangled from the mess that you are.
One day I will part with you.
I will mourn your loss.
I will cherish your memories.
I will distance myself from the thought that “stuff” means something more like hope.
“Stuff” will just mean objects.
Objects that my girls, alive and in front of me, are too big to use.

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