do not go gentle into that good night
We celebrated his birthday wrapped in blankets on the porch, our breath hot and cheeks cool in the night. I told him about the stillness of that first dark morning, when we marveled at his bright gaze and impossibly thick baby thighs.
Four years later, he still leans in close for comfort. His hair is damp from the coughing, and I realize helpless new mama feelings fade but don't extinguish. When nights are dark and breathing labored, they haunt me still.
I hold him tighter, my lips against his cheek. His breath slows, and I listen for the grace of quiet as cars pass and the wind rustles the corn.
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