I stood, immobile. Unmoving, completely humbled by what I saw.
A vision in pink, so fragile, so tiny, and thankfully so alive.
She was beautiful, barely five weeks into a life of seemingly constant pain.
Thirty-four days of machines, tubes, syringes.
It was unnervingly quiet, just the alarms before experienced hands silenced them,
reassuring me that it was ‘normal’, if ever intensive care could be described as such.
All I knew was how broken I felt, crushed by this delicate blue eyed face.
Tears, my tears, as she cried. She screamed, wailed, flailed her little arms,
yet there was still no sound.
Her vocal talents were subdued by pipes feeding oxygen, two skin coloured plasters
covering her cheeks, blankets covering the tubes filtering toxins from her blood.
Leaving her, I left a prayer behind.
A promise that if she never gives up, I won’t let her down.
Perhaps it is right that I never become a father.
Steve B 12/08
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