This was once a love poem.
Before the routine set in, before the bed got too small and sweaty, before the mosquitos buzzed overhead. This was once a love poem.
Before the sadness arrived each morning, the tightness in the chest and the furrowed brow. Before the loss of hope.
Before the cheerleaders put down their pom poms for the lost cause. This was once a love poem.
I went to a class on Monday and our assignment for the week was to live in the perspective of, “This is it and I’m satisfied.” And if you really step into that, if you really get present to what that means, you see that this is in fact how it all turned out. Like if I ever wondered, “How will it all turn out?” well, now I know. This is it.
This is it and I’m satisfied.
I said this out loud and something about it made my shoulders drop, like maybe I don’t have to try anymore. Like if this is it, then maybe I don’t have to have a baby at all, we can stop worrying, the efforting can stop.
And for a moment this made me happy, this lack of desire, this tiny suicide, this dream dissolving like sugar in a glass. Like, if I can see that everything ?s okay now, there is room for a love poem or two.