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I am waiting. Waiting to creep out from under my
parent’s words that rain over me like hail. For the fingerprints of their
holding to be released and the bruising to heal. Waiting for the cocoon to
open, for the wings to emerge, for the wind that dries the wings and the hope
that strengthens their veins. I am waiting for the boy I have met
to become the man I will marry. Waiting for the years we will
travel. The years when no place is home. The times when the only place that
is home, is the blueness of his eyes and our hands entwined. I am waiting for the day we decided
the two of us should become three. Waiting to be blessed. Waiting to be told
I cannot. I should not. What sort of a mother would I make? Waiting to tell
those doctors they were wrong. I can. We did. I will be. I am waiting to hold him. Little
fingers wrapping around mine. A glimpse of his father and touch of me. The
breath of my future when I am long gone. I am waiting to take him home. To
wrap him close beside me on the plane as we travel the millions of oceans
back to I am waiting for his first words,
first steps, all his firsts and my firsts, and together, our firsts. As a
mother, as a family, as Us. I am waiting for the music that
plays when he’s asleep and we can slip into each other’s arms again. Waiting
for the Father’s Day when I tell his daddy that we are expecting another.
Waiting for the Christmas morning when we find out that our baby will be a
little brother. I am waiting for the night we
almost don’t make it to the hospital, and all the days after that I struggle
with two small boys and no sense of me. I am waiting for the year I do not
cope. Waiting for the unraveling, for the year I finally curl around myself
and say, ‘Enough, I need help.’ I am waiting to find her, that
voice like surging water that speaks into places others have not. Waiting for
the ears that finally hear what I have been screaming my whole life. Waiting
to peel back the times and memories. I am waiting for the woman inside me to
emerge, and for the man who lays beside me to stand. I am waiting for the day we lay in
bed, quietly tangled in each other’s arms, long after the storms of that
previous year and look back and say, ‘Not everyone has this, do they? What we
have… not everyone has this.’ I am waiting for that feeling of
flight that comes when you finally see those wings hanging on the end of your
bed. Waiting for the morning I get up and know how to put them on. Waiting to
be me. I am waiting for the day I look at
my sons and can say with pride in myself, “I am their mother.” I am waiting for the moment I
realize we have had our last baby and our family is complete. I am waiting for the words I write
to be birthed into this world. For the things I feel to have meaning for
someone other than me. I am waiting to see my family
holding my writing. I am waiting for the day my little ones can read it. Can
understand for themselves. Can see how long the
fight was, how trying the anticipation, and how determinedly I said, “I am
waiting.” Written by: Tabitha Bird back to top
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