What It Is to Be a Mother Carmen Harrington

I didn’t bloom in your belly, but you gave me life.

You taught me to walk run pray in Spanish.

Father wanted a son that carried his blood, yet you gave him three daughters, and more births were not possible.

You poured your love into his being, sacrificed everything for his comfort, uncovered he had a lover.

Discovering his deceit was agonizing, your jealousy blinding, killing your rival your chosen solution.

I didn’t bloom in your belly, but you gave me life.

You taught me to read write speak in Spanish.

Yet God detained your bullets. The courtesan carried a child, the son your husband desired.

When my presence you perceived, your saintly mother’s heart refused to pull the trigger.

And upon discovering she’d abort me, you chose to save me, offered to raise me.

I didn’t bloom in your belly, but you gave me life.

You taught me to sing care forgive in Spanish.

You waited for my birth, anxious and hopeful. Worried the pact would be broken yet eagerly awaiting your new son.

The day I arrived and you cradled me, smiled, cried, and accepted me.

Loved me though the baby, the bundle you received, was a daughter.

I didn’t bloom in your belly, but you gave me life.

You taught me to live love teach in Spanish.

You gave me life and taught me what it is to be a mother.