I am watching my only daughter, life of my life, give birth. I have been sober for 2 months. It is heartache. It is pain. Waves and waves of desire wash over me, not for the grandson I am about to have. And I silently weep. What is wrong with me?
The baby comes out. My daughter turns away. She does not want to hold him. She is afraid of him. The baby doesn’t cry. I feel chills run up my back. A small innocent child, not asking to be born, not asking for this life. Wanting love. I had love to give and I didn’t. Blue has none to give. She is an empty soul, anyone could fill her with anything but it wouldn’t stick. She has a leak somewhere. I think I broke her. I slapped her and broke her. It is my fault this child will be unloved and unwanted. The baby starts to cry, I feel relief. Wet streaks down my face…tears. I have not cried in years. Salt bursts on my tongue, seeping in through my thin lips. The boy is fine, he will be fine! I am lying to myself. Lies are so much sweeter. Like choosing the chocolate over carrots. I want richness to envelope my tongue, even though I know my eyesight needs something better. Clearly, my eyes are seeing wishes. Blue does not look at him. Does not touch him. He is screaming for love, for his mother. The nurses cajole her, trying to place the poor child in her arms. She does not care. “Take him away!” She screams. She thinks he is going to be adopted. She doesn’t care. She attempted abortion twice. It didn’t work, he wouldn’t die. I know she thinks there is something wrong with him. I love him. At least I think I do. I’m not really sure. I intersect the nurse as she comes out, holding him, and talking to him.
“Give him to me”.
“That’s not really protocol…”
“Give him to me. I’m family. His only family” I say. The nurse looks right and left. She gives him to me. My Tristan. My sadness birthed from sadness. I cannot care for him but I can give him a home. Hugs. Sobriety. Clean. He looks up at me with her bright blue eyes. My hears breaks.