The child, the Wild and the Morbidly awkward Introvert

Cora-Not Mine?

Michael. My Michael. Son. The being I carried for nine months. Who was in fact a big part of me. And yet, seeing him made no difference.

I would have thought seeing my own son would awaken in me new, fiery sparks of passion unlike anything I had ever felt before. Seeing him was like not having seen him; not having seen or felt anything or anyone. How could I appreciate something when it was making me feel conflicted? Perhaps this was the depression most women faced after deliveres but for me the process had been delayed so that I was struggling to accept this small human with blonde hair as an actual part of myself. Knowing he had been out there was so different to actually seeing this golden haired, pouty-mouthed cherub stood before me. He was undeniably perfect. Yet so wrong or perhaps wrong by the standards I had been expecting him of being. How was he a part of me?

Trying to tell Sparrow was as possible as grabbing something sharp and slicing myself in half without drawing a single breath. I could imagine how he would feel; the sad gleam in his eyes as I realised that my inability to accept what he had given me would rip him apart on the inside.

I almost fell apart as I felt his long, lean and hard, sweet smelling form press into me as he wrapped his arms around me in a hug that would have killed me but I was stronger now. I closed my eyes and listened to him breathing instead; there was a slight, barely noticeable wheeze there that I had never noticed before. It made worry yank my eyes open so I was suddenly gazing into his serious face.

"I want to show you something." He gently squeezed my limp fingers through his as he silently led me away. "Your hand is so fragile I feel like it's going to snap."

I managed a wrangled version of a smile, focusing on the carpet as he led me to his room and I wondered what he was about to do.

Once we got into the room he reached under the huge bed and tugged out a box. It was probably the size of a small box of Ferrero Rocher and it was covered in silky pink studded through with pale pearly shells with a darker pink ribbon threaded through the sides. It looked like a delicate little box an old woman would keep her prized possessions in. I was amazed at how tenderly he knelt over it, pulling it into his lap as he stroked off the lid. I slowly settled down beside him, breath baited in anticipation as I watched him reach inside the box.

"Here." A broken smile flitted across his face as he handed me a small bead bracelt with the words 'Roz' threaded through it.

I wondered what he meant as I felt its light weight and hardness; small but still present.

He handed me something else. I took it without looking; a bracelet like the ones they brand you with when you end up in hospital. It had a name, date of birth and various other things on it. I got ready to ask him if it was his grandmother's when he took out the next thing. The bracelet was too small for even my thumb to fit through, I frowned. He pushed the next thing my way and then cleared his throat before walking away, back towards me.

I grabbed the glitter-frame covered stack he passed my way and flipped over the first thing.

It was a photo of a minute, red faced baby. Too small to be ready; she had no eyebrows but insane eyelashes, her purple eyes were squeezed shut and her head was bald. She looked about the size of half a mango. It made my heart tremble when I saw how small and helpless she was. I flipped over to the next photo and my heart sank; the same little face dressed in a tiny velvet dress placed in an open casket with a garland of blood red roses on her head. My eyes stung even as I flipped to the next picture. The minute little being wrapped up in a snowy white blanket cradled in two very familiar hands; tattooed intricately. The tenderness of the moment almost tore me apart.

I shakily moved to the next one and held my breath; Sparrow smiling tenderly down at the tiny little snow-cloud bundle. And then one where he was smiling, gazing in a manically lovestruck way at her delicate little pink face. His nose was pressed against hers in a painfully tender and delicate action that made tears threaten to pour down my face.