How miss you, your childish fingers, your spaghetti kisses. You grew up so very fast my young brave one. I remember black hair-a shock of giving down into your perfect eyelid. Duluth in winter-tuck you in tight inside my warm jacket-zip up-make pretend you are still safe inside me. You would eat at leisure-no stroller for you! A swim at Lake Superior-who knew diapers could only hold so much! Fell right off and no towel-up on the car hood to dry you like a baby turtle.
Before you-a wedding day. Grandpa brought much needed but gaudy parents-a couch that could seat ten but made of rock-a carpet that covered three fourths of our hardwood floor giving us warmth and protection from who-knows-what. A wedding cake presented by a couple- martial artist-she, mediation. Worked in one shop-ying, yang. Trips through the small apartment-not the bedroom which housed the back door& an air mattress& a crib partially built.
Before you, I was sick with toxemia-Bedrest, he said, Vital. Young, full of nesting instinct, laying there-click, click. At intervals-arguing would arise-not from the TV screen but from upstairs neighbor. Frightening wails-I shivered, wept-I’d never been this alone. Doctor’s visit day arrives at last-I walk the parking lot & into the hospital. He says I must deliver tomorrow-blood pressure too high-threat of seizure lies thick in the air. I am directed down long hallways alone-I’ve never been admitted to a hospital before-Who is with me? Just you & me. We are ushered into our room where wet are destined to physically separate-become two instead of one. I glance at the tiny incubator next to my bed-soon it will be occupied by part of myself, and yet not. The pain floods me, I must concentrate-it can’t overtake me. There are others watching, waiting-I focus on a point right beyond my Dad…