In the days after you died

They came around me like kind bees. They wrapped my hard, engorged breasts in cabbages and ace bandages. They brought me sage tea. Drink this, to stop the milk. Bitter.

They came and put food in my mouth. Every two hours they brought vitamins, C and echinacia and other things to keep my immune system going, because they knew that the rest of me would be shutting down, going to sleep, stop trying. These wise, wise women. My sisters, my moms, my midwives.

They chopped fresh potatoes and parsley as a poultice to help the ache of my breasts, their swollen fight, making so much, so ready, so loving, not wanting to take this answer that you were gone. That you wouldn't be eating.

Lay on the bed, wilted parsley and cabbage, I am cooking it, it looks ready for soup.

To dry up, to flatten out, to say no to the life and force so joyfully pouring out, mama for the first time, mama from here on out, to say no to that...

I send love to that me, that me that was round and full, and so happy to be your mom, to that part of me that had to go back to sleep, and pack up your clothes and the diapers I had washed and layed out, all ready for you, and the little bath tub and dresser, and take them away. I send her love because she was glorious and beautiful. And so brave.