My beautiful boy.

My beautiful boy.

Lucky first, keen to breathe, came out crying 3 weeks early.
Lucky me, refusing sleep to gaze upon my bundled boy, saw him turn from warm to cold and with relief as nurses came, calmed as confidence of training and experience warmed him, with a blanket made just for this. I should have held him on my chest. Nothing better made for that.
Again my gaze could not be torn, I stared and wondered on my newborn, waited for his tiny chest to rise with breath, waited too long.

“Nurse”, I cried, “He’s stopped breathing”.

And quickly she stole him
to resuscitate.

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Minutes passed, like hours they seemed.

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My thoughts intent. No room for breath. A wail was building up inside me, volcano boiling, bound to blow, this molten angst. this pain. this pain. this, ‘will he never breath again?’
 
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And then, she came like mother calming, smiles with news so wonderful, soothing seas to sweep me through the polished laminated hall — so bright — the stark and disinfected smell to gaze upon my son once more and see his colour warm again. And see his tiny nose take breath.

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My beautiful boy.

My beautiful boy.
Anguished son, keen to leave this unfathomable world, torn and toyed, distraught and joyed, simple win on wondrous game to soar and sore to lose again. 13 long years of mix and muddy mind that sees such brilliant things in world’s design and finds no meaning, finds no sign that in his heart for which he pines can be fulfilled….
… if fear is left behind.

My beautiful boy.
I plead to write more verses here, more years of him, more years and years with news of feeling, seeing, doing, finding meaning, knowing love. 
I implore,

beautiful boy….more and more.