Preface: This composition is meant to encompass the duality of the infant a birth mother may remember, and the child as they presently are. It is intentionally vague toward the meanings of past and present, meant to emphasize how getting lost in nostalgia can actually feel like reliving.
A thousand wide scars remind me that you are real.
You are not the blonde-haired two-toothed show-stopper
that knows rice cereal and touches leaves.
You are not the strong stair-climber, you are not the clean navel.
I can’t decide if you even are, or if it’s a matter of were.
Time can’t think straight when it comes to you.
The past becomes the present, and the present isn’t real.
But you are; I have proof.
You are the shadow of a kick in my belly
You are the limb against my liver
You are the cannon ball of flesh
imprinted on to my rib, and eternity.
You are sleeping at the foot of my bed,
learning to use your tongue and knit your brows.
You are yawning, and you’ve never done it before.
You are my focal point as I change our lives.
You were a function of daylight,
you were the meaning of my heart.
But now, you are the space in my arms
and the subject of old photographs.
And now, to the child: as you are,
You are; you are real.
You thrive, and live, and you scatter joy
From your every hair and smile.