Is by Lauren Scharhag

For I.M.

I know we were never close, 
and yet,
I knew you 
when you truly were 
that twinkle 
in your mother's eye.
When she and I used to
play dolls together,
I caught a glimpse 
of how she would one day 
cradle you, 
nurture you, 
cherish you.
I knew you 
when you were still 
blooming inside her, 
a clenched bud, 
like the hibiscus that grew 
in the yard
of our great-grandfather,
(your great-great-grandfather).
All we girls could be
those blossoms, 
skirts of lavender
and a sunny, 
bloody center,
occupying the same branch. 
I saw her fight 
a custody battle for you
across years and a thousand miles.
I watched her take a second job 
to pay the lawyer, 
waiting tables in a seedy strip joint
45 minutes out of the way, 
so tired she was afraid 
she’d fall asleep at the wheel 
on her way back to you.
Then I got to watch you grow up,
sporadically, 
a toddler here, 
in pigtails and pink dresses,
a tween there, 
worrying over boys and acne,
a teen, 
getting your driver’s license. 
I couldn't believe it 
when she told me 
that it was your turn 
to be a mother,
much less that you’d gone. 
How will we ever 
become accustomed 
to this past tense? 
How will we bear 
your mother’s eyes—
the spark that’s left them,
but never her heart.
(Or ours.)

We hold your child now,
a tiny fire
that we will tend,
and warm ourselves by.

Lauren Scharhag is the author of fourteen books, including Requiem for a Robot Dog (Cajun Mutt Press) and Languages, First and Last (Cyberwit Press). Her work has appeared in over 150 literary venues around the world. Recent honors include the Seamus Burns Creative Writing Prize, three Best of the Net nominations, and acceptance into the 2021 Antarctic Poetry Exhibition. She lives in Kansas City, MO. To learn more about her work, visit: www.laurenscharhag.blogspot.com