On the days that you were born,
there was Grace.
And then there were two other Graces.
They cared for me in shifts,
twelve and twelve and twelve.
The third Grace had essential tremor
and she tried to hold me still
while the very young anesthesiologist
stabbed me in the back four times.
Although his hands were steady
my edema wore him down.
I could not be numbed.

On the days that you were born
There was Hope
that you would be able to enter
this world naturally, with ease.
But I had to throw that plan
out the window
because you already had your own way.
From the curtain-less operating room
I watched lightning flash across the night sky.
You were cut from me.
My flesh from my flesh.
My heart, outside of my chest.

On the days that you were born
There was Love.
An amazing, breathtaking, overwhelming love,
the likes of which I could not fathom
any of the days before.
Such love, as they held you to my face
and I kissed your tiny cheek.
But you were whisked away so quickly
that the love became fear,
a kind of terror I could never have imagined before.
They took you away
and I was empty.

A part of me in another room now.
A part of me, outside of me.
The very best part of me;
my grace, my hope, my love.

My Maggie.