Posted Monday, July 21st, 2008
Your mother sleeps and your father, up two days, goes home to shower, and I get to hold you, less than a day old, swaddled close, a cotton bundle in a blue cap. Childless at forty-three by choice, Iíve never held someone as young as you, only ten hours with us. Iím amazed at your life, how you grew from a sperm and egg into featureless cells that formed themselves into you, the baby boy I hold now. At twenty-one, half a lifetime ago, I was pregnant and drunk and lost and had to save myself. Until now, sitting in a hospital room, the curtains closed to soften the winter afternoon sunlight, Iíve never let myself know the miracle of this. Your mother sleeps, and soon you will too. But first you smile. I swear youíre laughing, so glad to be here, as if you know something we donít, something good about this world weíre in.
Comments [post a comment]
Posted by Judy Cabito on Monday, July 21st, 2008 at 9:59 AM
Posted by Ashley Minihan on Monday, July 21st, 2008 at 3:11 PM
Posted by Sharon Hurlbut on Thursday, July 31st, 2008 at 9:50 PM
Lovely! What a beautiful portrait of joy.
Posted by Kim Townsel [ email@example.com
] on Thursday, August 14th, 2008 at 12:27 AM
Posted by Mary Kaley on Thursday, October 16th, 2008 at 7:21 PM
Lovely SOC flash.