Remembering Life After Death

I breathe in the new leaf smell,

warmed by the singing sun.

My feet are burning,

light and heat concentrated

through the filter of black sneakers,

butt parked on the front steps

of the empty porch,

facing the street’s flashing-by cars--

a suburban afternoon

nearly touching April.

Last year, today,

the air was burning

in my shriveled lungs,

corroded by a newfound

viral child,

an unwanted pregnancy

that was killing me,

killing millions--

an enemy so small

it became too large to fight.

Sweat-soaked and chilled

I closed my eyes,

breathed through the fear

of my daughters, orphaned

by the end of my struggle.

Behind my lashes

the future showed teenage first-kiss

agony, tasselled caps

tossed into the mother-lacking air,

unhugged grandchildren--

thousands of hours, untouched

by my closed eyes.

The pause went on too long--

I had to remind myself

when to breathe again.

I smelled the burden of patience,

the acrid tang of perseverance

carried into the afternoon

and night

and day again.

My daughters asked questions

and I answered,

coughing words of love,

telling them the lies they needed--

that I was fine

that I would get better

that I would not die,

bitterness smothered under stories

I didn't believe

as I reminded myself to breathe.

I am still breathing

but it catches in my heart sometimes,

the better words I knew before

lost behind last year's fog.

The sunshine feels good, though.

It is Sunday

and my daughters are laughing

instead of crying.

The surprise of the season

is that clichés about spring

died this cloudless afternoon

and my sarcasm doesn't mourn them.

I am new with the greening daffodils,

the catcalling of birds,

relentlessly twerking bees.

Labor pains are put aside

with the abundance of birth.

I can park my butt on the porch,

sit in the momentary sun

and just breathe.