The Last Time

The first time I fed you was nature unfolding 

exactly as it should be

my breasts swollen like cantaloupes against your tiny head.

I had taken the classes and watched the videos and voila.

We were a little team.

I fed you in parking lots

Pumpkin patches

Doctors offices

Movie theaters

It was almost always easy

and always calming

and I can’t count the number of times we both fell asleep 

attached to one another like branches and leaves.

The last time I fed you

I knew it would be our last.

I made space for it.

As we passed the mother’s lounge at the aquarium, 

my heart tugged me toward the door. 

This will be the very last time. 

I sat in the leather chair and let you climb up. Latch. 

We rocked and you fidgeted and squirmed—using my body as an anchor for your ever-moving frame.

It felt so important

and I knew I should be grieving the moment. 

I tried to make space to grieve. 

But everyone said this was the next step. 

Wean him so you can get your life back

(what life?)

so he won't be too dependent

(but he's just a baby?)

It felt like the right thing at the time.

Movement forward.   

Necessary. 

But part of me knew it was just a choice I was making.

A sever. 

The next day, you hinted at wanting to feed, but you weren’t persistent, 

and you weren’t heartbroken. 

Which made it easier, 

and much harder. 

The next month we went to Hawaii. Just me and Casey. And I got pregnant. 

But the baby didn’t stay.

So now I think, I gave it up.

for what?

Now I mourn those months we lost. 

Months of closeness. Comfort you so badly needed. 

15 months was too young. 

Too soon for both of us. 

When we got back from Hawaii you let me hold you for five minutes straight.

You clung to me. Shocked I was home. 

It was a stillness I’d never seen in you before.

I knew you were the branch 

and I was the leaf

I fell.

Shriveled.

And you kept growing without me.