|Photo by Krišjānis Kazaks on Unsplash|
Love is fear. Seesawing with hope.
Strategising for ways to cope.
Love’s keeping still. Not moving an inch –
it’s got no space to fidget and flinch.
Love is faith. And following on
blind, groping through the known and unknown.
Love is steel. Mercury and lead.
Its colours are more than just blood red.
Love is a mauve bud and green thorn,
the crinkled hands of a new-born.
A pleated silk sea of sunset gold,
the drooping elbows of the old.
Love is bone white. Flesh-pink, sky-blue.
I’ve loved them all and they end at you.
The villanelle bug has left me, thank heavens. It's a lovely form and I'm very fond of it, but weeks and weeks of it buzzing around the brain gets a bit much. So yes, I was glad to write to it but also glad it's out of my system now. I'm back to my usual form. This one is the first part of a series of four, as of now. I don't think it's over yet, I feel a few more parts coming.
It started with a quote on my feed on Mother's Day. "All loving starts with the Mother." I don't know the source, it wasn't mentioned but it resonated completely. May has both Mother's Day and my child's birthday so it's a great time to ponder on both parenthood and love. Though any time is a great time, really.
My mother's birth story was pretty much over in two words - normal delivery. She was never forthcoming on the subject, so all I know is that her labour was short, no complications and there I was, born a week before the due date. Was it painful? - slightly worse than the monthly cramps. That was that. If you pressed her, her standard rejoinder was - one forgets, I've forgotten, that's nature's way. It was strange that she was so reticent, because Ma wasn't especially reserved. Childbirth just wasn't something up for discussion those days.
My own birth story has lots of words - 'preterm', 'footling breech', 'fetal distress', 'emergency caesarean', 'get this patient to the OT stat', 'neonatal convulsions', 'observe for 72 hours' 'low birth weight' and other similar medicalese. Terrifying. Quite the contrast to my mother's. And I've not forgotten, so that doesn't hold for all women. However, I don't like talking much about it either. I do appreciate and celebrate the resultant offspring, in May and in all other months because of dem words. More than 20 years later, the baby's turned 22 this month, love is still fear seesawing with hope.
Have a wonderful week ahead.