He was born ten weeks ago today. It feels sometimes like something I dreamed of, beautiful and terrible and vivid and over much too quickly. A still-soft belly and faded line down the middle remind me he was here, that I held him. That he was mine for a time.
He was so beautiful. I look now at pictures of him before the surgery and after -- it was more than an open chest that made him look so different: older, somehow. Was it an innocence lost, or a wisdom gained? Or both? And then I couldn't hold him anymore, when (perhaps) we both needed that the most.
He had to leave us; his heart was too broken to be mended. So is mine, childless mother that I am.
I will always be thankful that he was here, that I held him. That once upon a time, I had a baby. His name is Ewan, and I did not dream him up.