I remember the first time I saw my baby’s back. Tiny bone bumps stacked up under skin. That view had so much meaning. At once I had created bones that ended up in a body of a baby I have loved for life after life. My heart, oh my heart. My dear son.
I remember the first time I saw my next baby’s back. Tiny hairs barely stuck to the skin of the smallest shoulder blades I had ever seen. My hairs, my girl, my heart. My dear daughter.
I did good. I made them. I loved them with every breath, every beat.
Now, my heart? The same heart that I have only kept beating because of those babies? Now that heart? My only heart? That heart has finally broken. Thankfully, I think. Painfully, I testify. Bent and bruised for years, I have hung on. Hung in. Kept going. Kept it going. Keep going, Walker, keep going. They need you, Walker; they need you.
They moved out. They are not my babies. I am not their mother. Yes, my children broke my heart. Thankfully, I think. Painfully, I testify.
I have reached this point. A peak. Stacked up under the skin are my bones. Dusty, dented, but mine. My heart might be broken. So be it. But my spine carries me forward through this life. I have reached this point.
I did good. I made it. I stand with no fear of bad things happening. The worst has happened. And I am still standing. I am free.