i am his
It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say,
That some days the prospect of my everyday –
The responsibility to be mother, carer, therapist, advocate –
Is my undoing.
Laden with layers upon layers,
Of what he needs from me,
What I have to give to him,
In order for him to be the best version of himself,
To have the bare minimum skills to function in this world,
Crushes me under its invisible hold.
I silently plead,
Why couldn’t it have just been his legs affected,
Or just his arms,
Or why couldn’t his speech at the very least been spared?
Why does it have to be everything?
Why did it have to be made so incredibly hard?
No rhyme or reason,
No answer to satisfy my questioning,
Would come calling back.
And despite the generosity of others,
No one has the power to unburden me.
I carried him for nine months,
I gave birth to him,
I am his,
As much as he is mine.
And so I am the one who needs to make it right.
Even if it takes everything that I am.