Frozen In Time

A poem on finally removing the frozen breastmilk from the back of my freezer

Tucked behind forgotten leftovers,
beneath the frostbitten edges of time,
rests a quiet relic of my body’s grace,
syringes of milk, sealed in whispers and rhyme.

Five years ago, I packed them away,
each ounce a testament to love, sacrifice and will,
to the hours spent tethered to machine and purpose,
to nourish the tiny girl who made me a mother still.

I told myself I’d use them someday,
for a rash, for a bath, for a tender need,
but time kept moving, as time always does,
and they stayed there, untouched, unchanged, frozen in deed.

Now, my body is closing a door I can’t reopen,
the space where life had bloomed before,
the rhythm of cycles I cursed and cradled,
a whisper lost behind a sealed-off floor.

And so, I will not drown in ache,
but instead, I will create something new,
press these ounces into permanence,
something golden, something true.

A keepsake, a memory, a moment frozen in time -
something I never imagined I’d cherish so deeply.
A reminder that once, only my body could share
a love that will always linger, preserved completely.