By Amita Parab Sahai
Standing in my backyard under the harsh summer sun
I'm waiting for her to finish,
For her to be ready to go inside.
She's been digging in the damp mud
Along the brick wall covered in Devil's ivy,
Tearing away at the old immortal roots.
She throws her full weight into it,
Her paws digging up the soft soil,
Upturning it in heaps.
There's an instinctive precision to the madness,
Like she's done this before,
In a different lifetime,
In a different yard.
For a moment I worry
That she might dig through
To the other side of that fence,
Or the earth,
And escape—
Run away from all the fear she must feel now,
All the distress of not understanding
Why she feels like this.
The intravenous medication that's attempting to cure her uterus
So she can be a mother someday,
Has her thinking she's going to be a mother today.
She's digging a trench for the puppies
She thinks are coming.
When she thinks she has done enough,
She sits down and waits patiently,
Willing them to appear
So she can do the next thing that needs doing.
She will make a wonderful mother, I think.
Doing what needs be done,
Despite the I.V. access port taped to her paw,
Despite the drugs running through her system,
Despite me begging her to stop and come inside.
She's doing what she needs to do,
Putting her unborn children first,
Digging away frantically in the face of life,
Steadfast in the time of uncertainty.
She's already ahead of the curve, I think—
When it comes to being a mom.