My Daughter Whom I named Sadness

By Diksha Mishra

A woman is born with all her eggs,

and so was I—

cradling my daughter

within me,

even as a formless pulse of life.

I carried her where I went,

through days heavy with solitude,

her weight growing

quietly,

pressing against the walls

of my hollow womb.

And when I could no longer bear her,

I birthed her alone,

in the stillness of my room,

where loneliness flickered grim.

Had you been there,

perhaps you’d have kissed me—

for she was beautiful,

even if not.

Her tiny body wiggling in my arms,

mouth gasping,

a hunger she holds

deep within her lungs.

The longing in her eyes

mirrors my own,

a quiet ember I clutch like a torch

that flickers,

in search of you.

I could not help

but call her my sadness,

her name so sweet

on my lips.

Now, when she wakes

crying

in the middle of the night,

I stare at the emptiness

beside me,

a shadow that lingers,

heavy and cold.

and wonder how it would feel

if you were here—

With me—

with her.

My daughter,

who would forever,

always

claim the space between us.

I imagine you,

kissing her weeping cheeks

with tenderness.

And I hope

you would always make room

for her wobbling limbs.

Her head resting

in the curve of your palm,

you would lay her softly

in my arms,

watching me with love, I hope,

as I press her to my chest,

my aching breast

at her mouth,

quenching her thirst.

And you would sit

through the night with us,

holding me as I hold her.

And softly, I hope,

you would coo her name—

as though

she had always been yours.

By Diksha Mishra