That number seems impossible to me. I can't believe it's been that long since I first saw his squirming, naked form in the neonatal intensive care unit. He was screaming at the top of his lungs, pissed off at a world where nurses and doctors were poking, prodding, stretching, and diapering him. Wanting only to be warm and fed and asleep.
He has his struggles now, with kids on the playground, with his own impulsive mind. But he is a genuinely good boy. Terry Godbey has a poem about her son that I love. It's from her newest collection of poems Hold Still.
Saint Marty dedicates this post to his beautiful boy.
Smelling My Son
by: Terry Godbey
Leaning close to kiss his cheek,
I inhale the heady tea
of crushed wild grasses
and goldfish crackers,
the buttery fragrance
of baby flesh, lingering.
He snores softly,
the sound a dog makes
when someone it loves
gets too near the food dish.
I lie down beside him.
He cried on Christmas
after biting off the head
of a chocolate bear
with a large red heart,
his first taste of cruelty,
the treat spoiled.
But he is a different boy
at bedtime, devious,
willing to do anything
to stay up late, scattering
toys like cookie crumbs.
I, too, was devious,
willing to do anything
to trick my ovaries,
satisfy my craving.
Each night I stand over his crib
terrified the rise and fall
of his blanket
will stop,
remembering all my children
who never got to take their first breaths.
 |
| Happy birthday, buddy |
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