If I could rename her, I would call her Oya. She brought the rain/the storm/the thunder and lightening my heart needed.
I thought my womb would stretch/hips expand/body open for all my children to breath life.
I never imagined my teacher would come to me, age 11/a reflection of my brokenness/an unrelenting stare/unyielding hunger to be whole.
There was no escaping. A time to heal had come, and so began the cycle of faith and fear.
I never imagined my daughter as a savior. There would be nothing immaculate about her conception. How I became a mother would be by birth. But here she is, no marks to prove my body made room for her/to prove to my soul was given time to prepare for her. But she is here, breathing in all of my dreams as if I whispered them to her as she tossed and turned in my body.
She is a sphinx. The fire burns but never destroys. I have witnessed her sift through her own ashes at least three times. For that, I do not take credit. I am only here to remind her she has been resurrected before.
I relish in every raindrop/vigilant through every storm/faithful when the lightening strikes because I know rebirth is on the other side. She has taught me to bury the dead/to forgive myself. It is her grace I am most grateful for/her willingness to allow me to grow/to always allow me to hold her. Even in the darkest hours, when our arms can’t seem to stretch around our bodies, I hold her in my heart/in my prayers. I carry her like child in womb in my soul.