for a few days

after

a surgeon takes a scalpel

to my body,

i am forced

to grow

still.

i am not made for this.

i fight

to move

to stand up

to change my life

without needing any help.

there are mountains to climb

and a valley

to find my way out

of.

it hurts.

they said it would

take

time

that i do not know how to give.

but every slow-gold afternoon

after we have had our lunch

and

after i have filled my pockets

with plans,

my son carries his pillow,

blankets,

bears.

into my room

where he climbs

onto my bed,

curls up

softly

into the roundness of my hip

the quiet place that

only he knows

as home.

i am this

to him.

still.

his breath warm on my shoulder,

a whisper

…isn’t this nice, mom?

— after the scalpel.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

Photography by Annie Spratt.