Miranda's belly, nine months postpartum
Miranda’s belly, nine months postpartum (Synch Media)

Do you know that I love you? I’ve probably never told you so. I’ve said those words so often in your vicinity, directed to your recent resident. I am so very full of love for him. I also love you.

I remember, before I knew he existed, I used to rub you. I remember dancing through Target during the two-week wait. It had probably been about a week, and I put my hand on top of you, just imagining. I could already picture him in you. I was sending vibes to him through you. We were both preparing.

I don’t blame you, you know. I don’t know if I blame anyone. These things just happen, sometimes. These things that break us.

You sheltered him for nine months. You expanded with him, kept him safe. I watched you grow stretch marks, tiger stripes. I talked to him through you. I never thought to say thank you.

Thank you. Thank you for holding my son. Thank you for changing your shape. Thank you for working with me, for learning a new purpose, for cradling him even in death. He only ever knew love in you.

After he died, I held on to you. You were my visceral memory. You held the ghost of my happiness. I still did and always will love you.

I lose weight, today. I walk and I fight and I starve myself, and you work with me. I couldn’t do this without you. And I think I’m still holding on, somehow. I think I still wish that his body lived in you. I think I still feel, that if I sit with enough stillness, he will move again. He will move inside you.

And I don’t see this really ever changing. So I guess I understand why you’re still with me. Because as much as I think I want you to, I may not ever be ready to let you go. Even though I let him go. Even though I didn’t.

So I guess, dear belly, I’m not writing to tell you anything. I guess I’m really just saying hi. And that you’re free. And I love you. And you can do whatever it is you’re going to do anyway. Just be.

Thank you.