A bitter childhood heals no woman. To erase a child’s pain, to raise them in my embrace, and only wish farewell once they grow too big to fit into my arms. Once the ribbons braided through their hair fall out, once the freckles of summertime fade, once the stickiness of clementine juice has washed from skin.

With gentle hands, I will love until the tan fades back to pale, until the flush of sunburn heals. I will run my fingers through tangled hair, watch soap slide down the crevices of another dotted back, just as mine, and press my lips against whispered scars. This time with me will remain safe in my heart, until they flee to find a new way home.

I thought I'd be a good mother. I tell myself again that who she is, whoever she remains, is not a part of my body—but with age, my heart weakens and my skin wrinkles. My hair grays, and the brightness of my once-innocent eyes fades to darkness. All I see is her same disappointed expression daily in the mirror. Grabbing the fat of my stomach, all before the knife is stabbed, the blood running down so warm it feels as if it surrounds me in its deathly hold. An emulous feeling surrounds me as I dance to the sound of my heartbeat slowing. A lamb is brought to slaughter, and in its wide eyes I see my own, standing before the knife.

The sand of the beach remains. Your child’s body softens with age, and love has changed you into something unrecognizable. Let me lie in the sea, waves washing over my back, erasing the pains of age, the aches of stress. As birds pass through the sky, the sun blinding, I fall into the water and feel my breath stop. The trepidation led to this moment. My breathing halts. My left hand is taken by your right.