By the time we pull into the drive,
I’m overcome by grief.
The flashes of labour whip across my face,
The thrill of the unknown,
The life of possibilities still only written in the sky.
For what has now been decided,
Leaves the house standing in front of me,
Looking guilty as part accomplice.
In that instance I hate every brick and panel,
I want to be sick, for what was stripped from me,
Starting in this house.
What I wouldn’t give to be round with pregnancy again,
Waddling those halls,
Smile on my face,
Nervousness in my eyes,
An openness in my heart,
Waiting for a different turn of events, that would lead me to him,
The way I had fantasised.
But instead untouched by time,
The ugly truth of a former life dissolved before it even began.
A house, that no longer looked like a home.
I’m uneasy on my feet,
The strength of nostalgia greater than my own,
It’s the familiar,
Yet through strangers eyes,
I’ve been here before, but was it real?
I’m tentative to cross the threshold,
From outside to in,
For fear of response.
For fear of what I see, but is in fact not there.
Before I am completely lost to sorrow,
There’s a squirming in my arms,
My focus regained,
As I gaze down at him,
We are still now three not two,
And for that alone, this house can be enemy or friend.
We are here.
I squeeze him and step through the door.