Parallel Rivers

by Elizabeth Moore

Sometimes, when the dawn is still dark, 

I crawl into bed beside my mom,

and curl into that still-warm space,

and tell her of the children I never had.

I show her my sadness like a finger painting, 

like a flower crown,

like crayon etchings of my name in cursive.

I show her my life—

the emptiness and fullness of its years.

I show her the people I thought would exist 

but don’t, 

the relationships I thought would form 

but didn’t, 

the lives I thought were guaranteed 

but aren’t.

And she strokes my hair and weeps 

for a loss she can never know.

And we weep together—parallel rivers—

for the people we thought would exist

but don’t,

the relationships we thought would form

but didn’t,

the lives we thought were guaranteed,

but aren’t.