Here we are,
No hum of machines,
No one keeping score,
No bustle of strangers.
The hallway is darker than I remember in its tungsten glow,
The wooden floorboards creakier,
The familiar smell of old books more pungent.
I turn in circles staring into the open spaces of rooms,
Everything still in its place.
His room has me shaky,
Apple green walls,
Windows draped in buttercup,
Crisp white linen,
Feeding chair home to lace trimmed cushions,
And lambs wool bears.
A baby animal mobile dancing above the cot.
There is sadness here,
For what now seems impossible to enjoy for its intended cosy simplicity.
Tainted by melancholy.
Seemingly also wounded by the wait for him to come home.
Then settled quietly next to my bed,
So lovingly prepared, what feels a lifetime ago,
His own bassinet,
And I’m bemused, bordering putt-off ,
I don’t remember it being so alive with colour,
Or perhaps I’ve just been living in shades of grey too long.
It’s welcoming amid my shadowy mind,
And placing him down delicately for the very first time,
Of the start of something real.
Something other than loss.
And then he smiles,
In telling confirmation,
What he’s been yearning for,
Quiet sounds of country-town suburbia,
The security of his own cradle,
Home at last.
Goofy now with love,
Unsure what to do next,
I curl up beside him,
Hand lightly on his chest to feel the rise and fall,
And drift into sound sleep for the first time since he was born.