beauty and the beast
I was in constant battle.
He was my beauty,
In the beast of circumstance.
His feeding tube is finally removed,
Progress of momentous proportion,
The first time to see in all its purity, his face wholly and only,
Like saying hello for the very first time,
Exquisite in its clear soft beauty.
Entrusting me to exclusively nourish him,
Unease for failure of equal proportion,
To rely only on me after the safety net of mechanics,
Like throwing me into the deep end when I cannot swim,
Ugly was the beast of doubt.
No buttermilk walls with gingham curtains,
No mobile of doves dancing on strings,
No sweet scent of newborn milk drunk,
Where I cradle him by night, called to by his sing-song for me.
A single dank closet room,
Gloomy in its poverty exacerbating loneliness,
With a musty stench of old abandonment thick in the air.
Where I lay fitful, staring at my phone waiting to be beckoned to him by night staff.
Heartbreaking in its reality.
Reassuring in its proximity.
It was enough to entirely break me.
Screaming into my stale pillow,
Swollen breasts weeping milk as if they too cry for him.
Paying penance for a sin that transpired to me rather than by me.
I cried for myself, as well as for him.
Was all my own.
Was this the price to pay for the spectacular wonderment of him?
I’d pay the toll a thousand fold, I reassure myself,
Though I couldn’t guarantee I had the currency.
But as I walk the darkened tunnel from my squalor through to the light of special nursery,
And nuzzle him safely to my chest,
Smiling infectiously at him clumsily,
Clicking his way determinedly through his feed,
I know in those precious snippets of bliss,
That the beauty trumps the beast,
And no matter the cost, while I’m with him, it’s never too high.