Warmth of Love
By Liliana Sosnowski
April third.
Six-o-six in the morning.
The sterile hospital room is silent, the tick of seconds passing on the circular clock on the wall ricocheting off
the room.
There is no cry.
No wail.
No gurgle.
No knowing sign of new life.
A culmination of nine months of love is torn away.
A pale yellow nursery will have to sit alone in the house which was waiting to welcome home the sounds of
babbling and laughter.
The family who was ready to celebrate new life, will now have to grieve life lost before it could even begin.
The grandmother who dreamt of spoiling the new babe, will have to go back to saving her money.
The grandfather who wished of having his own fishing partner, will have to go back to fishing alone.
The dog which once rested its head upon its owner’s stomach, will have to watch in silence as the woman curls
in grief.
The father who crafted his baby’s crib with bare hands, will have to trace the stork etched into the wood.
Unable to trace the soft sleeping features of his baby who was meant to rest in the safety of the home he built.
The mother who once sang soft songs and held her taut stomach- no longer feeling alone in hard times- will
have to lay in bed, hands now ghosting over the expanse of relaxed skin which was once her baby’s home.
The sterile room deafens under the sound of doctors rushing in, and nurses running out to gather support.
Streaks of white surround the pale blue babe who lays in its cold bassinet, large hands coming to meet gentle
skin as they try to get the baby to breathe. Rough hands covered in latex, willing the small lungs to fill with air.
The organ trying and failing.
The room remains to be shrouded with silence. No resounding cry breaking the stillness of air surrounding the
smallest one there.
Six-thirty in the morning. The certificate is signed. A name is given. The beautiful baby wrapped in soft cotton,
is placed in their mother’s warm embrace.
They rest peacefully. Eyes shut. Lashes long. Lips pouted. Fists clenched.
Pulled tightly to their mother’s chest, the sound of a strong beating heart covers the small one laying still.
The father who places his warm palm on his baby’s head, covered with tufts of black, traces the soft dip in their
tiny nose before his fingers lay still against the babe’s plump lilac colored cheek.
The mother and father who once dreamed of all the moments they would live to experience, instead now get to
make memories.
A memory of soft kicks against taut skin.
A memory of long lashes and pouty lips.
A memory of soft cotton against skin, cool and warm.
And the weight which will forever rest in their hearts. Hearts that will forever beat strong, loud enough for
three- drowning out the silent stillness of the smallest one.
It was a moment of silence, one that stretched beyond its predestined limit.
The baby, wrapped in white cloth, laid amongst its parents. Resting.
Rays of hot sun ran through the room. A sheer curtain dampens the star’s brightness to welcome the baby home
with pale yellow arms. Its warmth resting upon the cherubs closed eyes and plump cheeks- turning lilac into
rose.
When sterile hands reach out once more, no more are they covered in blue. Instead reaching out to the sleeping
babe are strong, calloused palms of the one who tried to will a breath into their small lungs and quiet heart. The
rough hands lay atop the feminine and masculine ones shielding their baby. Grief’s touch snapping back the
time solemnly borrowed.
