Will I remember?

21 11 2008

Will I remember?

Three pounds, thirteen ounces the day you were born.

You blinked your eyes as the doctor pulled your slipper body from mine. You cried: the most beautiful sound in the world. Ten fingers, ten toes, brown hair, daddy’s lips, my eyebrows. I tried to memorize each detail before the doctors took you upstairs.

Will I remember your skin, sticky like a tree frog?

You fought so hard to breathe on your own, your chest rising and falling as you clung to life. Your little hands grasped my fingers and held them to your face. Your feet pressed into my palms, just as they hand hours earlier when you were still inside my womb.

Will I remember the first time I held you in my arms?

You felt so fragile, tiny, vulnerable. You were crying, but as soon as you heard my heartbeat you settled down. We were both at home. The fear and worry melted as you slept on my chest. I kissed your hair and studied your face. Exhausted and at peace, you nuzzled my breasts and dreamed of milk.

Will I remember?





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