What You Would Not Wish
What You Would Not Wish Opal Rose was already speaking her first words when you came, thirty-six weeks, too early for the Shire— a gardener before you saw soil. Three days past Christmas, you opened your eyes to a world that would ask too much of your lungs. RSV, four months old, a hospital’s sterile light. Pneumonia’s gray tide pulling you under. Two weeks. Then two weeks. Then my arms were empty. I tied your lion to the crib. He guards a kingdom of no one while I walk among the living, hollow-hearted, carrying the shape of what is not here. No first date, no prom with a corsage you’d pick yourself. No high school desk with your name carved in the corner. No first job, no car on blocks with Dad, no teaching your hands the language of engines. No first drive, knuckles white on the wheel. No wedding band, no child of your own to frighten you with love and break you open. All your unwound years lie curled in my chest— a phantom limb I will never stop nursing. After you, life ...
