Fifteen Weeks

I'm tiny but I'm growing fast.

https://www.babycenter.com/
pregnancy/week-by-week/
15-weeks-pregnant

I've  interrupted Mama's cycle 

two times, maybe three.

She's showing, has a little bump that

makes her jeans too small

but all she thinks about is how

she cannot do this.

"Do what?" I'd like to ask her

if I could. "I'm here. It's done,

a separate life within you,

with a body of my own. A different

blood type, different brain, perhaps

a different gender with a 

DNA that's all my own."

Mama thinks that she can't do it,

but she's wrong. Maybe not

the long game, but I'm shareable.

There is no shame in that.

If she lets me grow a few months

more, it could be great. 

I could be great. Or neither.

Since I'm here, though, since

she didn't end our shared adventure 

weeks ago before I'd feel the pain,

before I had a face or sucked my thumb,

I hope she won't. I dare you: 

Show my picture to a child

and ask her what I am.

I didn't ask for this or plan my birth,

and Mama didn't either.

But I'm alive now.

I have worth.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

Note: I didn't write this for the sake of controversy but there's been a lot of talk about Florida's law change to prevent abortions later than 15 weeks. That doesn't seem like a drastic timeline to me, with ample time for a legal abortion prior to that, but it got me thinking about actual fetal development at that point. If you have an unwanted pregnancy, I encourage you to seek a local Crisis Pregnancy center for a free ultrasound and overview of all your options before making this life-altering decision. Life sometimes take us on difficult roads. You don't have to walk yours alone, regardless of your ultimate decision. It may feel like that right now, but there is help available.

Joseph

 The Virgin Mary had a baby boy, but oy,

I found this image here:
https://dianaleaghmatthews.com/
joseph-witnesses-birth-jesus/
#.YEOgWGhKg2w

what comes to my mind, anyway is Joseph.

Handsome carpenter who caught sweet Mary's eye,

proposed, was patiently awaiting the big day

when he could take her in his arms and to his bed.

Instead, the ultimate in disappointment

for his fiancée had evidently played around.

Forlorn and angry, torn, a Jew who loved the Law,

he knew the matter must be dealt with.

But as he conjured Mary's face with pure, angelic grace

he couldn't bring himself to drag her through

the mud of what would follow, gossip

and disgrace, the wagging tongues and pointing

fingers of the people in their town. Profoundly

sad, he reckoned he would be a bachelor

for all his days, for after such betrayal, 

how could he ever trust a maid again? He would

just quietly cast her out, the anguish of divorce

on top of heartbreak. Decision made, he went to sleep

with visions of the bride that would not be

until an angel interrupted with some news.

It wasn't some young yahoo who had

stolen her but Yahweh. God himself who'd chosen

her from all of time, from all the globe.

"I'm in good company," he said aloud.

The Holy Spirit was the one who planted seed

within her. "Virgin still," he thought, "still pure and sweet.

Her body may belong to God divine but oh, her heart.,

her heart, at least, is mine." He brought her

to the home he had prepared and watched her

belly grow and patiently endured the months

of lying there beside her in the night,

the smell of her hair and breath enough to drive

him mad. He'd reach around her in the darkness,

touch the skin that held a miracle. They'd

laugh to feel omnipotence that kicked and danced

inside and Mary, shyly, would assure him with a kiss

that soon, she would be truly his again.

(So little did they know of what would come.)

The long walk to Jerusalem, the humble barn,

amazing shepherds and a sky that echoed

praises from the angels all around. A night

of wonders was the birth of Joseph's son-who-

wasn't-really, but he'd raise him right,

a carpenter with skills and patience with the

wood. As Joseph brushed a hair that fell 

upon the face of Jesus as he nursed, the unplanned

father stared upon the mother's breast. He'd waited many

months and now he'd wait a few weeks more,

perhaps a bit less patiently, to consummate

his love for his sweet perfect bride.

(c) 2021, Ellen Gillette

The Song of the Seed (A Long Time Coming)

He picked a flower, gently pulling every petal out

and then a single seed from somewhere in the middle

and he held it there between a finger and his thumb.

It was a special flower, and a special seed, unlike

the sort we see in gardens or arrangements at the

florist shop. He whispered, “It is time to choose a family.”

But deep inside the tiny seed the living thing it held

was smart enough to know it wasn’t smart enough at all.

“What’s that? He laughed. “You’d rather not?

You’d rather that I chose instead? Alright,” he mused.

“Alright. Let’s see. You’re stubborn and I see your strengths,

but there is weakness there as well. You must be nurtured

carefully. I think you’ll be a second child, with parents who’ve

had practice . You will learn, from them, the power of commitment,

from your sister, bravery, and from the brother you will lose

a loyalty and love for what you cannot understand.

There will be other pain along the way, my discipline,

the way I prune and propagate my garden even here.

At other times the pain will come because there’s pain

released that I can only trust with but a few who will not

turn it inward, planting bitter seeds to water with their tears.

You’ll know neglect and disappointment, and you’ll wonder

who you are and why such things are happening and now and then

you’ll wonder if you should have chosen for yourself.

Loss and loneliness will be companions, but however long

they overstay their welcome, know this: the gifts they bring

were purchased at great price, and are as necessary to your

training there as has the rain been here. Your art, your heart,

your very body, and your soul are a piece of music,

but not every ear will like its tone,

and it will take a long, long time before the melody

I wrote a century ago and placed within you will unfold and

finds its truest voice. But little seed,” he said, “I promise this:

When finally you sing the song I give you now, you’ll start out

with a solo, high and hopeful, heavy with a sadness and a passion,

but it won’t be long (or so it seems to me, as I count time)

there will be harmony, The family that I choose for you,

the happenstances all throughout, the broken bones and dreams,

each triumph or defeat, each grain of knowledge you possess

is all a part, the bass line, and the tenor. Here I write fortissimo,

a jarring dissonance resolving with a pause or change of rhythm,

and the piece is difficult but powerful, demanding every ounce of breath

and just as you are sure your voice can never reach the highest note,

a harmony will rise beneath your failing volume, sudden<

strengthening, entwining to perfection to complete

the song of joy I will compose ... now ... just for you.”

And raising up his hand into a sudden breeze, he spread his<

fingers and the seed was gone. He closed his eyes to listen.

There it was. So faint. The music had begun.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2017