I Carry Your Names

I Carry Your Names

People look at me
and see empty arms.

They do not see
how heavy they truly are.

They cannot feel
the weight of the babies
I have carried
only to lose
before I ever learned
the color of their eyes.

For years,
I believed
that love would be enough.

Month after month,
I counted days,
held my breath,
read hope
into every ache,
every flutter,
every quiet promise
my body seemed to make.

Each time,
I dared to dream.

I imagined tiny socks
folded in drawers,
stories read beneath blankets,
sticky fingers wrapped around mine,
a voice calling me,
"Mom."

Each time,
my heart began
building a home.

And each time,
the walls collapsed.

They tell me,
"You can always try again."

But they don't understand.

I wasn't trying for a baby.

I was loving this baby.

This heartbeat.

This tiny soul.

This child.

No one can replace
someone
you have already loved.

I remember every loss.

Not as numbers.
Not as medical records.
Not as weeks and days.

I remember them
as my children.

Each one has a name.

Some I whispered aloud.
Some I could never bring myself
to speak.

But every single one
lives inside my heart,
where no one else can see them.

Sometimes,
I say their names
when I'm alone.

I wonder
who would have laughed the loudest,
who would have loved books,
who might have inherited
my smile
or their father's eyes.

I wonder
who would have needed me today.

My body
has become a stranger.

It has promised me life
only to hand me grief.

There are days
I resent it.

Days
I cannot bear
to look in the mirror
because I see
what it could not do.

Then guilt follows close behind,
because this same body
carried each of you,
even if only
for a little while.

Perhaps
it did not fail.

Perhaps
it was the first home
you ever knew.

I still catch myself
counting ages.

"This one would be starting school."

"That one would be learning to read."

"This one would be taller than my shoulder by now."

The calendar
has become a map
of lives
that only I remember.

People say
I have no children.

I never argue.

I smile,
because I know
they cannot see
the little hands
I carry in my soul.

Motherhood,
I have learned,
isn't measured
by lullabies sung
or birthdays celebrated.

Sometimes
it is measured
by tears cried
when no one is watching.

By tiny footprints
that existed
only in dreams.

By names
spoken into pillows
so the world
will never forget them.

If I could hold you
for just one moment,
I would memorize
the curve of your cheeks,
the warmth of your hands,
the sound of your breathing.

Instead,
I hold memories
that never had the chance
to become moments.

And still...

I love you.

Every one of you.

With a love
that has nowhere to go
except deeper
into the cracks
your leaving carved inside me.

People ask me
how many children I have.

The answer catches
in my throat.

Because the truth
is too sacred
for casual conversation.

I have as many children
as there are scars
upon my heart.

I carry every one of your names.

I carry every dream
that ended too soon.

I carry every goodbye
I was never allowed to say.

And until the day
our stories finally meet,
I will keep making room
inside my heart—

because that
is what mothers do.

Even when the world
cannot see their children.

Especially then.