Maybe

"You gotta have some little babies!"

"Don’t wait too long, now!"

"Who's gonna take care of you when you're old?"

As if babies are babies forever.

As if children are life insurance policies.

As if we’re promised old age.

The comments come casually, with laughter and smiles.

Tradition wrapped in assumptions. My own values put on trial.

What if something happens to the man I love? What if he becomes a memory too soon? 

What if I’m left to raise the kids alone? What if I pass on my feelings of gloom?

I watched my mom do it. Watched her carry the weight of being a single mom, trying to be both of what she thought a mother and father should be.

Looking back, it seemed so hard. I wonder if she ever just wanted to flee.

What if I die when they’re too young, the way she did?

What if I do everything right and still vanish too soon? 

She had plans. Big ones. For herself. For us.

And then she was gone.

I watched her body break.

And then she was gone.

I watched her heart fill.

But then she was gone.

I told her I loved her.

And then she was gone.

When Nana was killed, I never found out how Mom carried the grief of losing her mother.

Did she ever doubt that she could carry on?

I never asked. 

When Nana was killed, I fell into grief so fully, I thought I’d disappear. I thought the world would stop because an angel was gone.

I collapsed.

Then I buried it. I buried the grief to keep going.

I couldn’t deal with a body in constant mourning.

I won’t do that with my mom. Burying that grief would be like forgetting her. 

But the pain is at times unbearable. My heart feels irreparable.

Is pain inheritable?

I struggle to breathe inside the grief. I ache at the milestones she misses. 

I imagine that I can talk to her. I imagine that she listens.

And what hurts all the more–the unspeakable guilt.

“You were there by her side, you did everything you could.”

I could have done more. But it gets misunderstood.

If I have kids, they will never really know her. Never be wrapped in the warmth of her comforting hugs. I see her face so clearly. That scrunched-up laugh and look of joy she saved for me. The one she would’ve given her grandkids. I can picture it. I can hear the sound.

I feel the loss so sharp it cuts into me, even now.

If I leave too early, will my children feel what I feel?

A visceral pain, too deep to feel real?

Will they wonder how to keep going when everything hurts?

Will they know what to do when their heart threatens to burst?

Love and grief are twisted together for me now, inseparable.

And I don’t know.

I don’t know if I want to bring a child into a world where I might vanish. Where they might have to claw their way through the same fog I’m still learning to move through.

And yet.

There’s something in me that wants to pass down Mom’s laugh, Nana’s recipes, Dad’s stories. There’s a sorrow I feel at the thought that my parents’ line could end with me.

Maybe I can help their names live on.

But I don’t know.

When they ask, “Don’t you wanna have some babies?”

My answer is…

Maybe.

WORDS BY NIKI TOLCH