The Best and Hardest Thing

by Pat Brisson

  what’s the point of that, anyway? And thencon TRAC tion

  trickle . . . trickle . . . trickle. . . .

  And she squeezes her legs together and takes small

  breaths and tries to pull up whatever muscles are

  down there to keep the trickle from trickling out and

  making a puddle all over the floor. But she feels that

  prickling sort of tickle that you feel in your nose before

  you start to cry, and she tries hard not to think of her

  mother, but she can’t help herself, and then she knows

  she will not be able to hold back the tears, because

  she misses her mother so much and would give

  anything—anything—to have her mother here now,

  holding her hand, brushing the hair off her forehead,

  and telling her it’s going to be all right. And thenCON TRAC TION—

  the hardest one yet—and Molly puts her head in her

  hands and is crying in a sort of panicky, frightened,

  miserable poor me sort of way that only a pregnant

  teenager who is scared and alone and embarrassed

  can, and the boy next to her says, “Are you okay?”

  and when she doesn’t answer calls out to the teacher

  in the front of the room, “I think we have a problem

  back here,” and everyone turns around to see what’s

  happening, and Molly wishes with all her might to

  disappear but knows, deep down, that this is IT—no

  deals with the Universe, no bargaining, no ignoring

  it, no putting it off for another day. It’s happening.

  It’s really, truly happening. And she raises her head

  and wipes away her tears and takes a deep breath and

  exhales slowly and says, “Okay.”

  Fade to black.

  The Next Few Hours

  And then there is a blur

  of kids staring, teachers whispering,

  the school nurse speaking kindly and calmly,

  until Gram arrives, reminding me to breathe,

  saying, “You can do this, Molly.

  Just relax. We’ll be there soon.”

  And I am in the car and I’m uncomfortable

  and scared, but I believe her,

  and I breathe and breathe.

  And then there are hospital noises

  and too many people

  looking at me and telling me

  what to take off

  and what to put on,

  and where to lie down,

  hooking me up to machines,

  and Gram reminding me to relax and breathe.

  And I must have fallen asleep, because

  suddenly I’m awake and Gram is still there,

  holding my hand, saying,

  “You’re doing fine, Molly.

  Everything’s going great. It won’t be long now.”

  And I am so relieved that

  she is still there with me,

  and I imagine my mother

  being there, too,

  breathing with me and praying for me.

  And it seems to me that

  all the edges of things are

  no longer quite clear,

  and I’m being very still,

  concentrating on my breathing,

  not asking for anything but accepting

  ice chips when they’re offered

  and thinking they’re the best invention ever,

  melting so easily in my mouth

  that is drier than I realized.

  I am so tired and the contractions

  make me gasp and groan

  and I am pushing as hard as I can

  when the doctor says,

  “He’s coming; the head is crowning.”

  Then there is a sharp burning feeling,

  and in the mirror behind the doctor

  I see a little head

  forcing me wide open

  and a baby being born between my legs,

  and I can barely breathe

  with the wonder of it all.

  Gram is crying quietly beside me,

  and I imagine my mother there crying, too.

  But I don’t cry.

  I watch and breathe and push.

  And then he is born entirely,

  and I am utterly amazed.

  And at the sound of his first cry

  I am joyful beyond

  anything I could have imagined,

  for this new baby

  I have brought into the world.

  And more than anything

  I want to hold him,

  but they wrap him in a blanket

  and they take him

  away.

  Afterward

  I stand outside the nursery where he’s sleeping,

  the glass between us steamy with my breath.

  I stare and stare: the fact of his existence

  is more than I can manage to take in.

  Since he was born I haven’t even held him;

  the cramps are sharp reminders that he’s gone.

  I realize that he won’t be mine forever;

  I only want to hold him for a while.

  I watch another mother at the nursery:

  “Excuse me, may I have my baby now?”

  The nurse looks up at once and, smiling, tells her,

  “Of course. I’ll bring him to you right away.”

  That’s easy. So I wait a few more minutes

  and go and ask the same. This time—no smile.

  She frowns. “Do you think that’s wise?” she asks me.

  I feel like I’ve been slapped hard in the face.

  Of course she knows. What made me think she

  wouldn’t?

  I feel the tears begin and turn to leave.

  But then another nurse who overheard us

  is quickly by my side, hand on my arm.

  “Don’t mind her. I’ll bring him in a minute.

  Of course you want to hold him for a while.

  Take all the time you need ’cause you deserve it.”

  Again the tears—this time of gratitude.

  At last he’s in my arms and we’re together.

  He’s beautiful—I can’t believe he’s mine.

  At least he’s mine until tomorrow morning.

  And if I’m lucky that will never come.

  Let the Darkness Stay: An Aubade

  Oh, God! Let the darkness stay!

  Let this be the longest night

  the world has ever known.

  Let the stars shine forever;

  keep the moon in the sky.

  Let grass and trees stop growing;

  make everything hold still.

  Let me hold him

  this whole eternal night,

  breathing in the perfume of his skin,

  listening to the soft sound of his breath,

  memorizing hairline,

  shape of ears,

  counting lashes,

  touching perfect skin.

  If you can hear me, God,

  here’s what I pray:

  hold back the light

  and let the darkness stay.

  Someday

  Does he look like me? I wonder.

  Or is Grady’s face reflected here?

  I search so carefully,

  but nothing seems familiar:

  his fuzzy head,

  his dimpled fists,

  his puffy, squinty eyes

  are none I’ve ever seen.

  How do people find

  great-grandma’s ear

  or father’s chin?

  This baby in my arms

  seems no one but himself.

  And would I want some

  feature just like mine

  so I could recognize him for all time?

  Or is it better knowing that

  someday—

  if we, by chance, are foun
d

  on the same sidewalk,

  when he’s . . . say . . . six

  and on his way to school—

  we’ll pass without an ounce of recognition?

  (No thought from me of stopping there to stare;

  no risk of me forgetting how to breathe.)

  The Best and Hardest Thing: A Villanelle

  The best and hardest thing I’ll ever do

  is sign the papers giving you away,

  but know my heart will always be with you.

  Your dad and I—we haven’t got a clue

  on how to parent, so I won’t delay

  the best and hardest thing I’ll ever do.

  Those months inside me when you grew and grew

  I always knew were leading to this day,

  but know my heart will always be with you.

  Whatever comes my way, this much is true:

  kissing you good-bye will always stay

  the best and hardest thing I’ll ever do.

  I’d like to keep you, but I’ve thought it through,

  and though it hurts, this is the better way.

  But know my heart will always be with you.

  Regrets are many but my doubts are few,

  although my tears and good-bye hugs betray

  the best and hardest thing I’ll ever do.

  But know my heart will always be with you.

  Farewell Song

  Sweet child, I won’t know you

  when you’re just a toddling boy;

  I won’t applaud your first steps,

  watch you with your favorite toy.

  I won’t be there to kiss you

  as you welcome each new morn,

  but I won’t forget the joy I felt

  the day that you were born.

  Sweet child, I won’t see you

  when you’re heading off to school;

  won’t meet your friends or watch you play

  in park or field or pool.

  I won’t listen to you practice

  on piano, drums, or horn,

  but I won’t forget the joy I felt

  the day that you were born.

  Sweet child, I won’t hug you

  when you think your heart might break;

  won’t be there to encourage you

  along each path you take.

  I’ll never know your secrets,

  give you shelter from the storm,

  but I won’t forget the joy I felt

  the day that you were born.

  Sweet child, you’re too young to know

  I’m desperate and forlorn

  just knowing I won’t be there

  to teach you and to warn

  that choices you will make in life

  may make your heart feel torn,

  but I won’t forget the joy I felt

  the day that you were born.

  The End

  They come:

  Gram with my clothes,

  the social worker with papers for me to sign,

  the nurse with instructions I forget.

  I dress

  and sign

  and kiss and hold and hug and

  hand him over.

  Watch him leave.

  Outside the sun is shining.

  I’m glad for that

  for him.

  Chrysalis

  On the way to the elevator

  we pass a mural of butterflies.

  My fourth-grade class raised butterflies once.

  In the terrarium, caterpillars fattened,

  transformed into their chrysalis state—

  hanging from the lid—

  eventually emerged,

  and flew away.

  Now, I press my hand

  against my soft and flatter belly

  and remember

  that terrarium lid afterward:

  each chrysalis still there,

  hanging by a thread,

  abandoned,

  empty,

  used.

  I Turn a Corner

  A guy walks by

  wearing a T-shirt that says,

  TAKE THE NEXT STEP.

  He smiles and winks at me.

  I smile back and blush.

  I think perhaps he was sent here

  especially for me.

  Maybe by my mother.

  (Stranger things have happened, right?)

  By the time we reach the door of the hospital,

  I’ve made a plan:

  There are still three days of school left—

  I’ll go back before it ends,

  survive the questioning stares,

  smile when someone talks to me,

  take deep breaths when they don’t.

  I’ll get a summer job.

  Then, in September,

  I’ll start again—

  get to know Sierra and Jessica better,

  maybe Kevin, too.

  Join a club.

  Volunteer somewhere.

  Go on.

  I imagine my mother smiling at me.

  Thanks, Mom.

  I can do this.

  (A Haiku)

  Doors close behind us.

  Grass, just cut, smells sharp, sweet,

  keeps on growing.

  Author’s Note

  The books I’ve had published before The Best and Hardest Thing have all been for younger readers. I’m primarily a picture-book author, and the idea of writing a novel seemed an overwhelming challenge to somebody like me who “thinks short.” As novels in verse became more popular, I thought perhaps I’d found a solution to my problem; I figured writing a poem was like writing a mini-picture book. What I didn’t take into account is that a novel written in poems would require 160 of those mini-picture books.

  I didn’t know much about poetry when I started this project, so I read a lot of books about poetic forms and techniques. As I read, I’d get an idea about how that particular form might work in my book, and then I’d tackle it. Check out my Web site—www.patbrisson.com—to find out more about the poetry forms I used.

  I was lucky to have a writers’ group with members who encouraged and cajoled me, praised and critiqued my work, showed me where to cut and where to expand, suggested ideas to explore, held me to a high standard, and inspired me by their own example. For their years of friendship, patience, and encouragement, I thank Wendy Pfeffer, Kay Winters, Joyce McDonald, Sally Keehn, Pamela Curtis Swallow, Elvira Woodruff, Martha Hewson, Susan Korman, Deborah Heiligman, Laurie Halse Anderson, and Trinka Hakes Noble.

  Another fortunate experience for me was being invited to attend a yearly poetry retreat for children’s authors organized by Susan Campbell Bartoletti. The first year I attended, I had written very little poetry, but by the third year I was using the workshops to create new poems for The Best and Hardest Thing. It’s been a joyful experience, and I’ve learned from and been inspired by workshop leaders Maria Mazziotti Gillan, Nancy Willard, and Molly Peacock as well as the other participants. The retreat provided the impetus I needed to get the manuscript finished.

  I thank my editors, Catherine Frank and Kendra Levin, and my copyeditor, Abigail Powers, for their patient, careful attention to detail and their insightful comments and questions. This book is better because of them.

  And most of all, thanks to my husband, Emil, whom I have loved for decades and who, luckily for me, has a job with a steady income.

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