Tiny upturned sleeping face; almost like
looking into a magical mirror that erases
age, wear and tear. Precious little baby,
they have told me not to hold you, not to
get so attached. How little they know, how
little they understand. I was attached long
before I heard your first cries, long before
you first kicked me from the inside out.
I knew you deep within my heart, felt a
love that I don’t think I will ever feel again.
But here I sit, moving closer and closer to
the door of the hospital, my little mini-me
in my arms. Your eyes, for the first time,
stare intently into mine as though to ask,
“Mommy, where are we going? Why do you
look so sad, Mommy? Why are there tears
falling down your face?” I cannot answer you
through the sobs that I hold back for fear
of causing a scene. I am doing the right thing,
therefore I must be strong even though it hurts.
I silently say my goodbyes as you are lifted
from my arms. “Be safe. Look both ways
before you cross the street. Never let anyone
tell you that you aren’t worth the world.” I want
to say so much but no words come to my
chapped, dry lips. Silently, I rise from the brown,
worn wheelchair and walk through the hospital
doors into the cold December air. A shiver runs
down my spine; whether it is caused by the
air or the sadness in my soul, I am not aware.
All I know is that you, my Munchkin, will be
forever in my heart. Always and forever.
Author: Jennifer Leigh Swearingen
Date: February 9, 2004
Copyright © 2004 Jenna Swearingen - Do not use without permission
