And one day I’ll tell you,
How your shallow breath was mine, how it caught in my throat as you slept, until I saw your stomach rise.
I’ll tell you I lay there with my baby while my other babies lay at home.
How I called my own mother, tears streaming down my face. Because you were too small for that bed, for those needles, and beeping machines.
I’ll tell you that seeing you lie there was so out of context, and how I wished it were my lungs and heart on that bed, even though it was.
I’ll tell you how all I could do was press my face against yours and whisper, “I know”, “I love you”, and “you’re so brave”.
Braver than I.
Your strength was so much bigger than those tiny fists and silent cry.
I’ll tell you I spoke for you, I did my best. And that I held you even when my arms couldn’t, they carried you until we smelt of each other.
I’ll tell you there aren’t words that exist to describe watching your baby suffer, that tiny bits within me broke and rebuilt just as fast because they had to.
I’ll tell you the nightfall in my stomach turned into day the moment you smiled, a small return to me. Your eyes a glassy sun shower. Suddenly I noticed the butterflies on the walls, the colours on the curtains and the Christmas antlers on the nurses.
I’ll tell you that as we drove away, I realised how beautiful it was to simply be at home together,
and breathe.
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