The Popsicle Season

 

There was a time when a bowl full of noodles made me excited.
 Sizzling on the stove, steam fogging up the glass.
It used to mean comfort.. something warm, something safe.
But that week...
I couldn’t touch it. I couldn’t stand the smell.
It made me gag.
Everything did.

My favourite perfume.. the one I wore on happy days
smelled like poison.
My room, the place I used to retreat to,
felt like it had been dipped in something rotten.
Even the sunlight that filtered through the curtains felt wrong 
too yellow, too heavy, too loud.

I started keeping the windows shut.
I stopped playing music.
I didn’t want to be seen by the sky.
I didn’t want to be heard by the wind.

For two whole weeks, all I could eat were popsicles.
Mango ones mostly.
Not because they were sweet 
but because they were cold and quiet.
They didn’t argue with my stomach.
They didn’t remind me of what I was missing.
They just melted.

And I told myself: maybe this is just a phase.
Just dehydration.
Just stress.
Just my body being difficult.
But sometimes, late at night,
when everything was still 
I would feel something shift inside me.
A softness.
A presence.

Some days, I thought I was going mad.
Other days, I thought maybe I was just becoming something new.

But most of the time, I didn’t think at all.
I just lay there, counting the hours,
trying to pretend the nausea was just dehydration.
That the waves of exhaustion were just stress.

And then one night 
2:03am.
I woke up sweating, dry-mouthed, dizzy.
I dragged myself to the bathroom thinking,
just water. Just a cold splash on my face.

But when I sat down..
blood.
So much blood.
And more than that..
clots.
Pieces.
Chunks.
Like someone had turned something sacred into pulp.

I didn’t scream.
I didn’t cry.
I just stared.

The tiles were cold.
My knees were cold.
The whole world was suddenly, horribly cold.

And in that moment,
I knew.

I knew you were there.
And I knew you were gone.

My love,
my little heartbeat I never heard,
my little breath I never felt 
I’m so sorry.

I’m sorry I didn’t know.
I’m sorry I didn’t give you a name.
I’m sorry I thought the smell of rot was just in my head.
That the taste of salt in my mouth was just the wind.
That the way my body screamed was just my mind being dramatic.

You were there.
You were trying.
And I was too slow.

If only I knew…
I would have read you my most personal notes,
those pages stained with teenage heartbreak and silly dreams,
the kind I never showed anyone..
but you, you would’ve known them all by heart.

I would’ve whispered my poems into the hush of my belly,
let you kick to the rhythm of every messy verse.
I would’ve told you how big of a hopeless romantic your mumma is,
how she believes in slow dances without music,
and love letters never sent.

I would’ve told you about stars that remind me of people,
and how I still wish on every single one.

I would’ve taught you that it's okay to cry at commercials,
and how laughter sometimes hides in the middle of grief.

If only I knew…
I would’ve painted you into every future I had.
I would’ve loved you so loudly,
even in the quiet.

You were my secret,
and I didn’t even know I was keeping one.

But I love you.
And I always will.

Mumma’s here.
Too late — I know.
But still here.
Forever here.

If there is a God,
or something like mercy in the stars,
I hope they tell you..
how much I would’ve given up for you.
My breath. My body. My name. My life.

If only I got the chance to hold you,
to grow you.
To feel your weight on my lap,
tiny fingers stealing bites of mumma’s popsicle.
We would’ve sat on the cold floor,
watching Friends,
laughing at things you wouldn’t understand—
but I’d still explain them to you anyway.

Forgive me, baby.
Forgive me for not knowing.
Forgive me for being a bad human,
for letting you slip through me like mist.

But if there's a possible way..
If god truly do exist..
If magic does happen..
Come back to me
if there’s such a thing as coming back.
Find me again when the air smells like summer.
When the freezer hums with green popsicles.
Find your way into my womb next season.

I will be waiting.
With a freezer full of green popsicles I don’t even like anymore.
With a lap that aches for weight, it never got to carry.
With lullabies trapped in my throat and names I never got to say out loud.

I’ll be waiting.
Not just this summer
but every season my arms stay empty,
every time I see a mother kiss a scraped knee,
every time I cry in the grocery aisle near baby food.

Popsicle in hand.
Shaking. Melting. Unfinished.
Like the story, we never got to write.

Come back to me, love.
If this universe is kind,
come back to me.

Not as a star,
not as a wind,
but as breath in my belly
next season,
next time.

I’ll be the one waiting in silence.
Calling your name that never was.
Bleeding again,
if that’s what it takes.
But let me have you.
Just once.

Please.