You Don’t Remember

You don’t remember
Bathing in the warmth of the ninety eight point eight. Nervana.
You don’t remember gliding your perfectly formed preborn foot across the length of my right fifth rib, tickling me even before your birth.
You don’t remember floating soundly in saline aquatic safety. Peace.
You don’t remember the unique to you life line, never before, never again on earth.
You don’t remember the thousands of heartbeats echoing throughout, day and night, night and day. Music.
You don’t remember the oxygen being inhaled and exhaled, lungs expanding, deflating, every breath
for you. Concerto.
You don’t remember the rush of nutrient rich, cell growing, organ creating, brain building, life giving blood being pumped from me to you through our own sacred channel. Our chord.
You don’t remember the ultrasound, your first picture. You don’t remember all of the ultrasounds after that. Masterpiece.
You don’t remember the naming.
You don’t remember the waiting.
You don’t remember the wanting.
You don’t remember waiting thirty one years just for you.
You don’t remember the first look, the first cry.
You don’t remember the gratitude.
You were being created.
You don’t remember me cradling you in my arms
You don’t remember.
But I remember all of it.
And that, my precious child, has made all the difference.

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