More than one

I was meant to take
 our little Jenny to the lake
 and bring her back to Gramma's home
 with wonder in her eyes about the dawn
 showing you the string of fish
 she caught all by herself--almost.

And John was meant to help you 
 plant and weed and reap your gardens
 the summer that you broke your leg
 and couldn't kneel beside him
 while you taught the budding engineer
 how to care for growing things.

And Betty Lou was meant to learn your stuffing
 as she cooked with you our first Thanksgiving,
 and then let the dishes wait;
 the two of you stay up till four
 while she put music to the verses
 that you never told the rest of us about.

Will you sing your songs with Betty Lou?
 Or she and I smile for the baby kicks?
  Will I live to share that English class with her?
   Or bring you spring bouquets of dandelions?
    You tell them you're not ready yet to be a mother.
It won't be only me that dies today.