Atlantic mother

byJidan K

It is a strange thing to cross the Atlantic
I started with three children
And ended with only one

I tell you a mother's heart beats differently
I could put my head to your chest and hear the difference
A mother's first beat anticipates the second
Like a child quickly glancing both ways before darting out
She watches for the tank, the car, the man with a gun
She strives to tell the future by living a little faster than everyone else

I tell you my heart beats differently, even now

I slowly weigh the lives of my children
Like rocks in my hands
Some days I mull over their shapes ‘ each one different
Yet heavy the same

I had three daughters and eyes where others have skin
Mother sees everything
Dreading disappearances when she is not looking
I watch with my body because I fear missing the last glimpse
Not remembering the lingering image of my daughter before
She is taken

Life is a roll of dice
I would not breathe, except that I must
Every exhalation only measures the seconds passed safely
When the field before me heaves ripe with mines
Mothers do not survive war
Parts remain
I tell you my heart beats differently
Even now

After we landed on a small island, we huddled together
Too scared to hope and yet unable to die
We ate grass and leaves
Another woman fed her baby her own blood
I watched for eleven days as she withered away
Cutting herself with a pocket knife
When I put my youngest in the ground
I was her future, lived a little faster

How does one choose among her daughters?
There is no way, but one must
Like breathing water before drowning

With one child, the choices narrow to a singular kind of desperation
But with two, with three…
Many more calculations…guesses…probabilities and priorities
I would have given myself for each…but there is only one of me to give
So I chose…. As if picking the best horse on a race track
Something as cold as logic
Deep as instinct
Bathed in blood and love
Coiled tight around my soul

My heart beats differently
Even now
My remains have swallowed themselves
I tell you that mothers do not survive war

Henri Huet (AP).