His blood is my blood.

His flesh my own.

I created this being in my likeness.

Actually, he looks more like his dad.

Or he used to

when he was little.

The other one looks like me.

Two lives created.

I have always loved

the idea of Frankenstein’s monster.

Creating a human being.

I created two human beings.

I like to take all of the credit

but I know I needed my partner’s dna.

My body did the work

after he made the deposit.

Isn’t conception amazing?

Sperm penetrates egg, and if you’re lucky,

Boom!  There you have it!

Simply amazing!

From there the female body

grows another life.

His blood is my blood.

His flesh my own.

Over 6′ tall now he stands,

sitting on the couch

looking up at my

4’11” self.

He wipes his bloody mouth

on the red washcloth I gave him.

Missing 4 of his teeth.

And an extra one they found

on the x-rays.

We paid for this.

He made it through okay.

My baby.

His blood is my blood.

His flesh my own.

I wanted to hold onto the washcloth

when he left.

To keep it near to me.

A part of him near to me

as he has seemed so far away

this past year.

I’m not ready to let go

of that which I created.

Yet he is not mine to keep.

He is his own now.

I let go the first time when he

exited the birth canal.

From that point on

he began his journey of being separate

from me.

The cord severed and the journey began.

It’s hard for me to let go

of my flesh and blood.

I want to hold onto the red washcloth

the only part of him that stayed behind

when he returned to his father’s house,

where he feels he needs to be.

He says he’s not coming back.

And he hasn’t.

Not to stay anyway.

I played mother for a day.

He told me thank you and that

he was okay.  It felt good to be needed

if only for a day.

I grasped onto the chance to be the only

thing I  had known for so long.

His blood is my blood.

His flesh my own.

He is moving out into the world

on his own.

That is the nature of boys

to men.

A woman in his life

helps that transition along.

I am happy he has love.

A love that replaced mine

in his eyes.

In his heart.

A feeling of being torn apart.

I imagine he feels it too,

in his own way.

We want to raise them to be

independent.

Then we cry

when the nest is empty.

I cry anyway.

His blood is my blood.

His flesh my own.

I guess I have done my job.

Copyright Suzanne Norton 2018