Update: #15. read and write more poetry

Breathing (for my daughter)

By: Amber B.

The first night in the hospital, me in a half-sliced half-thawed Dilaudid haze,

your father stood over your plastic cradle at all hours,

because he wanted to see that you were breathing.

When we brought you into the larger womb of our home,

you'd splutter and groan all night with reflux,

waking up choking and gasping for air

and we'd pick you up and hold you longer than we had to,

because we wanted to make sure you were still breathing.

You've never been a sleeper

and, most times, the only way you'll nap is in a swing,

so, when you drift off, I silently set it to still

and sit beside you for an hour,

and I check to see that you are breathing.

Sometimes I think of the world outside the door -

your introduction and my return to life amongst it -

I watch you when you are sleeping 

and wonder what lies in wait

and I want to kiss your cheek and touch your soft hair

and tell you that I am always here,

but life has no guarantees

(all I know is you are fierce like me),

and I have to stop and remember to breathe.