in the ocean of it all

table of contents:
01. womb // labor of love
02. mother & daughter
03. it's groovy
04. slow dancing at weddings with you
05. last Thursday
06. Magnolia & the subconscious string between us
07. waters
08. ☆ tattoo
09. another month, another negative
10. routines
11. coffee with my grandpa, Danny, today
12. popcorn ceiling
13. neither kintsugi nor mosaic
14. empty except the liquid in my belly
15. hopscotch
16. focus on the present, and smile
17. hometown
18. return
19. hope
20. I’m bitter from the silence in December
21. Sunshine
22. spoiled cherished
23. under the pergola
24. 35mm film
25. in this ocean, there's me & you
Final Reflection

01. womb // labor of love
TW: miscarriage

i’ve been experiencing dreams
where i am holding my pregnant belly
before waking up to my desolate self
it reminds me of that first week in December
those two days of living in a dream
before being woken up by the sight of blood

i am missing something i never had
i am missing that feeling, the purest form of excitement
and the appointment that should have ended
with an ultrasound in my hand, was instead an appointment
to discuss why what happened, happened
i can make sense of it logically, never emotionally

the desire grows with each passing month
smiling babies, running kids, gender announcements
i was told not to stress, so i stress, then worry about stressing
so much of the month is sitting, and waiting. hoping, and dreading
my labors of love have led to an empty womb
giving birth is a labor of love in itself. but i am bare
waiting, dreaming, and waking up again

02. mother & daughter

do you think one day
we'll go back to being mother & daughter
or will we stay strangers
until we inevitably meet again at a funeral
digging up decades of quiet/pain/forgiveness
speaking many words by saying none at all
you know, your other four kids despise you
i find it impossible to despise anyone
you know that, it's why you send me letters
i was your baby until i turned ten
and i havent seen you since
i've forgotten your voice and you
wouldn't recognize mine if you heard it

03. it's groovy

my brain sleeps in silence
til the bass starts and the kick beat
acts as the defibrillator i needed all along
but no one knows i'll fall apart again tonight
as tears fill my gaping mouth and i drown
in regret while snapping my fingers to the sound
of something supposedly happy

04. slow dancing at weddings with you

as “wonderful tonight” plays on the speakers,
i take your hand and lead you to the dance floor.
we sway, and you almost step on my feet
in your new cowboy boots, but I don’t mind
because we sing along to each other, except
we change the lyrics from blonde to brown.
we did this almost a year ago, as we shared
our first dance as husband and wife and everyone’s
eyes were on us, but my eyes have always been
on you. almost a year of doing life together:
of figuring out which blanket is best to sleep with,
whose spot is whose on the couch, how to
perfect our homemade sweet tea recipe—of
quiet nights, giggly mornings, and serious talks
in the kitchen while I do the dishes—it has come so fast,
and all I can hope for is that we will slow dance
at every wedding we attend for many more years
because every night of loving you is wonderful.

05. last Thursday

we walked to our cars in the dark of a Thursday evening
I hadn’t seen you in a month, but you knew what
happened in December, I told you briefly—cowardly.
“I wanted to tell you this, after I saw you last,”
you said, then paused, before continuing,
“I’m pregnant again.”
joy overflowed my smiling mouth
and I hugged you tight, but not too tight
every word of congratulations was, and still is, genuine
but I drove home in silence. subconsciously, I added you
to the list of people who were living out what I dreamt most
I felt pity against myself, against my body, against these months
I just thought to myself, “what does God have in store for me?”
and, “it must be so great that it just hasn’t happened yet.”
perhaps it’s delusion, maybe it’s hope
but I drove home in silence because
I couldn’t cry about it all over again, as I had already done
so many times, in such little time.

06. Magnolia & the subconscious string between us

she changed her
name to Magnolia
the name second
on my baby list
i hadn't spoken to her
in years, because the
sun was setting on
our friendship and we
always confused the dusk
with dawn. youth
intertwined our souls more
than we thought
i wonder what else
about us remains in sync
despite difference, despite
the bridge that long fell, despite
the moon taunting us
of the sun that has set
but never fully left
magnolias have existed
for one-hundred million
years, maybe that is
why they have stayed
with us

07. waters

i had another dream of my death
the waterfalls swept me home

it would make sense that i
would meet my fate by drowning
with the moon cascading
upon the very thing i loved

don't we often lose ourselves
to things, to people, we love
the most? i hold my hands
close to my chest, and pray

as my lungs fill with water
i can recall what joy it was
to play in the bath when i
was just a laughing little girl

08. ☆ tattoo

for my eighteenth birthday, we got matching tattoos
Ashley, the oldest, a moon on her right foot
(she had to hide it from her husband)
Cameron, the middle, a sun behind her right ear
me, the youngest, a star on my right wrist

i once held a grudge being the littlest sister
part of me still does—my pain goes silent
because i've always been told how i felt, i've
always been told who i am, i've always had
to do better. i try to, at least

my dad would tell me to come outside
every time Venus was in the sky. he told me
it was easy to miss, because it looks like a star
but it's more than that. he would wrap his arm
around my shoulder and plant a kiss on my head

stars. they feel so insignificant
until you take a second and look up
and for the first time you can see the Big Dipper
suddenly, you want to learn all the constellations
just for a moment like this

09. another month, another negative

i don't believe in luck
but i had hoped i would be blessed this month
i woke up early, before crawling back to bed
am i supposed to want this so much?
my husband kisses my tears, he is so strong
while i become weaker

it’s beautiful outside, but the bitter part of me wishes it wasn’t
isn’t it supposed to know the pain i feel? i try to let the sunshine in
i try to praise but instead it’s just mumbled and pathetic

what am i doing wrong?

10. routines

i'm still sipping my morning coffee
by three pm in the afternoon
and i can hear the wind chimes song
as the wind blows in April
in my mind, i cannot decide whether
to sit in this ache or to do anything else
that may distract me from my grief
but i feel too empty to do anything
outside of my routines. i hum
an empty tune while cleaning dishes
i listen to the thoughts of someone else
while i fold my weekly laundry
i stay quiet in the evenings with nothing
but the AC fan blowing annoyingly
some days i cannot seem to function
in a way that feels human, but rather
robotically walking around the house
doing what needs to be done, just so
i won't cry for a few more hours.
the clock continues to tick, i force
myself to sleep on my damp pillow

11. coffee with my grandpa, Danny, today

We sit across from each other
at an iron table, sipping our
drinks. You tell me stories—
some repeats, some new ones,
and everything we share stays
at that table, between us.
Coffee was once a special treat,
but habits started, and then
it didn’t become about the coffee,
but the company. You make the
employees laugh with your jokes
and antics, which some people
take seriously, you grumpy old
man! But now that we are aging,
these moments become fewer,
yet even more cherished. In
middle school, I only had to think
about next time—now, I worry
on when it’ll be the last time.
So I sip my coffee slow, I take
note of every story, and laugh at
every joke, just to see you smile
before one day, I’ll be the only
one sitting at this iron table,
remembering, and missing you, terribly.