Every Little Sound You Make

It started at the time of birth,
waiting in anticipation for your first cry;
a universal signal of,
“I’m here. I’m breathing. I’m okay.”

From that day forward, every little sound you made was music to my ears;
a gentle reminder of
the beauty of life and the wonder of subtleties.

I would gaze at you for hours;
memorizing every inch and committing the
small details to memory:

the flutter of your eyes as you drifted to sleep,
the soft curve of your lips as you smiled;
a reflex that likely meant nothing to you, but everything to me.

The rise and fall of your chest was effortless;
so much so that I didn’t think to account for it in my mental appraisal of your perfection.

In hindsight, I was mistaken and foolish to take a crucial function for granted;
to think that because you took your very first breath the day you were born,
this somehow excluded you from ailment;
that your life force could never forsake you;

never forsake me.

During your illness, every little sound you made
was an alarm to my ears;
a jarring reminder of
the fragility of life and the potential for loss.

The distinction between a cry to eat and a cry to breathe,
is one I never wanted to know.

To this day, I am listening for your sounds;
embracing that the beauty of life
cannot exist outside its fragility;
appreciating every moment with you;
understanding that I do not choose your
journey and time on this Earth.

To love so fully and with such desperation for continuance, is not unique;
it is the experience of mothers all around the world.

Even so, I feel for you in a way I never have,
and I give thanks for every little sound you make,
for it reminds me,
“I’m here. I’m breathing. I’m okay.”