Self on loan

A mother's body is not her own. 

In youth she may proudly possess it for a time, without the understanding it is not hers to keep but that she is only the guardian of a gift. 

For from the moment life begins unfurling within her womb, sinew and limb and beating-heart are willingly surrendered.

In her mind, firing neurons create uncharted pathways, devoted solely for the first time to the formation of unselfish thought.

From her eyes, tears, like precious gems mined from the depths of a mother's love, are spilled in joy and sometimes fear.

On her back she carries the weighty burden of responsibility so that her little one may skip care-free through childhood's short days.

Her shoulders while firm enough to bear the storms of childish emotion,  still soften to pillow weary heads and soak up tiny sobs.

At her breasts, new life is suckled and there love is nourished and coaxed, like tender buds, into full bloom.

From the strength of her arms, a fortress is molded, a contoured haven of warm comfort and protection where safety reigns.

Her hands steady at the helm, toil unceasingly, yet are ready to play, caress or correct in love's sweetest labour.

The pillars of her legs provide steady reassurance, an unwavering foundation to cling to or hide behind, and the true symbol of motherhood, a lap to cuddle into.

But perhaps. of every part of a mother's body that is loaned to her child, it is her heart that will never truly belong to her again .  

For there it exists, beating outside of herself, in the living breathing flesh that is her child.