Leftovers

May is Mental Health Awareness Month. Looking back, this was probably postpartum depression. Whatever it was, it was awful, and I needed help.

Little sketches from my oldest daughter’s art journal, circa 2020.

When it became clear that I would never feed you
from my breasts again, I began to run. 
I left for thrift stores 
as soon as your dad came home. 
I drank lemon drops
and ate chips drowned in melted cheese. 
I stayed up late
watching whatever I wanted on TV. 
It may have looked
like a woman who had been set free.

Instead, it was a woman 
who didn’t have anything tethering her anymore
who felt unwanted and unneeded and unmoored
by the way her breasts had betrayed her
by the way the baby had left her.

He stopped me by the door 
as I was about to leave again.
Why would this baby want me? What can I give him?
He needs you, Margaret Ann. You’re his mom.