I held a child today
he was not mine.
Sadly he was not theirs either,
he was His.
Seated beside his Father
before he ever drew a breath
on this earth.
His hand barely covered my finger
and I gently guided his arm through
an outfit that never should have fit a baby,
but it did.
I laid him carefully on a blanket
in a small bed
as if he were sleeping.
I imagined one year ago
that the child I carried in my own body
would already have been bigger than this.
How was it that I was allowed to keep my baby
when they were not?
What was different between me
Why would they suffer this heartbreak when I
would go home in a few hours and celebrate
a first birthday?
I took pictures
of the feet, the fingers, the ears, the length.
All the things I treasured on my own
living, breathing child.
I brought the bed and the child to his mother
who looked up at me with pleading eyes
and who said “Thank You” to me
even though I wouldn’t have been able
to speak at all.
She found her voice, and used it to say
thank you. To me. Handing her that box.
The father stood beside the bed,
his arms around her shoulders as they shook.
The Father stood beside the bed,