Everywhereness

I conjure her 
into being
from within
my womb’s yearning
manifested for an imaginary moment.
I pretend that her silky plump chub
slides against my skin
as she giggles her tiny melodious babble
and sings about wherever she came from. 

She feels so real.

I give in to fantasy and become her captivated attendant
alongside the floating toys and baby shampoo.
Splashes of water cascade
all over the linoleum,
a gift from her newly found feet
in the wonderment of being alive.
The dewy warmth envelops us
in this nightly porcelain ritual 
and we fall in love
all over again.

I think of you.
Did you lift me out of the water
hands held high
under my armpits
tickled pink like our cheeks in the heat?
Would you pat me dry 
the way you would pat me on the back?
Three little taps, as if to transmit
the words you longed for but never received from your mother.
Or was it rather, “that’s enough now.”
A product of your Irish upbringing
trickling out
no matter how hard you tried
to scrub away well-meaning neglect.

Floating in the amniotic fluid of revery,
impermanence permeating.

Unmoored by your absence
my heart swells with its familiar ache

Grief has taught me not to resist its grip anymore.
So I allow each wave to melt me further,
like so many hundreds of times before,
into the tenderness that you embodied
before you left.

Wide eyed, fresh, in gratitude
for the simplest touch.
A crone
who evoked the wisdom
of a newborn.

Reaching back into this present moment now,
I find myself alone in a bathtub.
Neither you nor her, my little fanciful longing
in the shape of a baby girl.
Just the sound of the faucet dripping with time.

Somehow, in the wake,
I remember the everywhereness of you
waiting to be felt in the steam and the quiet.

And I know,
I will carry you forward,
If I ever get to meet her.