I knit the gloves
I imagine them
Fitting her hands
Like she fit
Into my arms
Like a puzzle piece
The first time I held her
She was born.
Stitch after stitch
But having faith
It’s my hands
Working the yarn
They will fit
Like a glove
Made by the mother
She doesn’t know.
I don’t pretend to know a thing about poetry. I have a sense of how the words should go, but the technicalities are beyond me. Feel free to critique. I wouldn’t mind knowing more about poetry and how it’s supposed to be. I would write more poetry if I knew more about it, I think.
I have no idea if the gloves will fit, if she inherited my tiny wrists or her father’s thick bones. But so far they look like they will. Knitting tightly on size 2’s seems to be enough to make the pattern child-sized.
I wish I could see her, talk to her. I want to have a moment with her where we understand each other. That moment will come someday, I tell myself. She’s only eight, going on nine, and she’s not ready. More waiting. This year marks halfway to eighteen.
In other times of the year, I can feel like this was worth it, but not now. Not when I remember the day she was born, not when I remember the surprise of how she felt in my arms, like she belonged there. Like she fit there. I wasn’t expecting to feel that. I thought my unfitness would have me keep my distance. I thought she would be out of sync with me, because I thought we were destined to be apart, because I thought she belonged in other arms.
Right now, I wish I had listened to Nature. I wish I’d put her to my breast, because that would have sealed it. I should never have let her go.
I don’t often let myself feel this, the raw regret of that moment when she was born, when I turned my heart to face the future I thought would be best for both of us, instead of turning my mind to face our bond as mother and child. I could have turned the Titanic around, I could have backtracked and taken her from the people I promised her to. But I turned away. For my sake and hers, for their sake as well. I regret it. I regret it. She was mine and I turned away.
I am haunted by a recurring vision of kicking her off the hospital bed. For years I wondered what this meant, I didn’t reject her, I thought. I gave her what I thought was best, I thought.
My mind is constantly at war with my body. My body knows I turned her away.
E, I am sorry. For a moment you were mine. I denied that moment for so long. I am sorry. So sorry.