We have such visions
when our fresh glass newborns are handed to us
as if we are trustworthy curators.
We see in an instant
the smiles, the grasps, the first steps, the first days
of swimming lessons, school, soccer, tap dancing.
We hear beyond their foreign infant murmurs
to Mama and Dada, spaghetti lisping, a forceful Please! with the embarrassing involuntary W,
to pleas for more, again, justanotherminuteMom.
We feel their animal warmth burrowing into ours
and have a fleeting mean premonition of rigid teen shoulders
resisting our touch.
We pull them closer
Adjust the blankets
Allow our limbs to numb under the weight of their bodies
Stay silent to listen for breaths coming and going
Rest a hand to feel the reaching & receding of their tiny mighty chests
They are oceans in our arms.
Everything then nothing,
everything then nothing,
tides pushing further away each second.
We pick up the pieces of their world left behind:
smooth rocks and chipped shells and weathered bits of glass,
our little remnants of treasure.