missing Céline

One thought,
Of the oh so many after finding out:
And what of the milk?

I wake some mornings
Waiting for my baby to rouse
And release the ache
Of the milk ready to come.

But my pin-drop of pain
Is nothing contrasted with
Morning stretching into
Daytime,
Afternoon,
Evening,
Nighttime.
Weighty.
Full for too long.

In addition to the heartache,
To the arms missing the warm load,
A cuddly bundle of baby,
To the seeing her clothes piled up softly,
To the holding her sister,
To the crying,
The sighs,
The kneeling in prayer.

All
This
Plus
The milk
That will no longer sustain.

previously she had powers to do anything and everything.

now she's not so sure.

the troublesome part,
the bit that confuses her head and her heart,
is the invisibility and intangibility of the moment--
the WHEN.

the
when-did-this-all-of-a-sudden happen to me?
the
when-did-the-former-me cease to be?

previously she was.
then she became.
now she is.

right?

it should all add up.
nicely.
smoothly.
succinctly.
without a hitch.
sans any sort of hiccup.

but the trouble remains.
disturbing the peace.

moment by moment, though, she gains.
she wins tranquility and normalcy.

she basks in the whole holy present.
she breathes without a glance back.
she closes her eyes without any forethought.

and rests.