No one tells you 

that there will be a last day

for everything.

But it will come, 

same as the first day came.

It will not announce itself. 

It will come like any other day.

But when it goes, 

it will take with it 

something you didn’t know you held so dear. 

It will turn it into memories

It will embalm it in the sick sweet ache 

of nostalgia.

The last day that you nursed him from your breast.

The last day he fell asleep in your arms.

The last day you bathed him.

The last day he ate from a spoon 

you held in your hand.

The last day you sang him to sleep at night.

The last day he sat on your lap 

or asked you to carry him.

The last day you stood in his closet, 

picking out the clothes he would wear for the day. 

The last day your fingers traced those worn pages 

of the book he’s asked you to read a thousand times.

No one tells you that as a mother 

you will pine for someone 

who is still beside you.

How a baby must die for a child to be. 

How a child must die for a teen to be.

How a teen must die for a man to be standing before you.

To be a mother 

is to keep losing your child 

over and over again. 

Had I known these things, 

I would have breathed him in even deeper. 

I would have held him even longer.

I would have slowed down the minutes of my life, 

so I could savor him. 

No one tells you 

that motherhood is a masterclass in loss.

Starting with your own heart. 

Because to be a mother 

is for your own heart 

to forever be walking around 

outside of you.  

By Teal Swan