Enough

I feel you flutter, but it isn't enough.

I go to the doctor's office; count all 10 fingers, 10 toes, wiggling before my eyes in 2-dimensional black and white. But it still isn't enough.

I wake up twice every night to pee, feel the gurgle in my throat at an unwelcome smell, have all the wildest dreams. And it isn't enough.

Maybe at 24 weeks—"viability," they call it. The week your cousin was born, and she's 6 now. Maybe then I'll feel confident. Or maybe not.

At every appointment, I brace myself. I prepare for the worst; to hear once again the most gutting words I have ever known.

There is no longer a heartbeat.

I wish it was different. I don't know why I'm still wired like this. I carried your sister all the way to the end. Until her skin finally touched mine, chests beating together in rhythm. But still, I expect death more than I do life.

Every day, a bit more hope. Watching you grow, feeling you rumble—all of it is pure joy. But my body cannot unlearn the memory of grief. It is inextricably intertwined; unshakable.

I have spent all the days since the one that tore me in two learning how to love this temple again. Trusting her, even when my default is to cast blame. Trying to let go of the control that was only ever a placebo.

And on the darkest nights, when fear wraps its hand around my throat, I stand naked in front of the mirror, numbering the stretch marks that bear witness to my motherhood. And I say the words again and again and again until I believe them.

I am enough.