This was once our home.
Now I think it’s mostly yours,
and I’ll bet you feel the same.
How does the saying go?
What’s mine is yours?
But that doesn’t make it ours,
does it, honey?
She is certainly not ours,
the baby with the dimpled cheeks.
But she is yours, and now you say she must be mine.
Her innocent eyes hold the weight of guilty actions.
Not green, like mine and yours,
but blue, like hers--
the one that gave you this child.
I see her in the baby’s face,
sometimes it’s all I can see.
In those moments I know I can’t do it.
Then she laughs, and it’s your smile that appears before me,
reflected on her tiny features.
In those moments I know that I must.
God help me, I still love you.
God help me learn to love her --
this stranger in the crib.
This baby with two mothers,
born of one and brought to another.
Not ours, never ours,
but maybe yours and mine together.
Cayla Christopher plans to graduate from SIUE with a degree in English. The plan after that is undetermined, but hopefully it’ll continue to be an adventure worth writing about.