It
The moon glided through the
skies. Mom was sick, very sick indeed,
and she and Dad were ecstatic about her being sick, especially Dad. It rejoiced.
Only two days late, but Mom knew, for
It was already tugging at her maternal thread.
And Dad was proudly announcing at work that It was due in March, even
before the doctor’s official decree.
They didn’t think of It as it. It was their baby. The moon gliding through the skies, to be
snuggled, to be loved. A dream nestled
in morning sickness.
They had yet to feel their baby’s
silken skin against theirs, to sense its innocence, to witness its simple
directness confounding their complex lives.
They had yet to hear its passionate
cry, its refreshing giggle, its soothing coo as it stretched its arms to
embrace a snuggly environment.
They had yet to fathom a living being
with no political bias, no prejudice, no guilt.
Only a newborn with the desire to be nurtured, no matter how ugly or
beautiful, limited or limitless in thought and stature.
It, for the moment, was
timeless. Yet to be born, pulsating with
life, preparing for the moment it would glide into its parents’ arms. Waiting to be cradled in endless love, waiting
to greet Life in its suit of naked simplicity, waiting until it would be It no
more.
Beth Good -- 2000
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