For mothers. Mothers who fear because we all know our children won't.
My son scares me. Every time he says, "Mama, look at me." I do not look at him, I run for him.
Twenty nine weeks in my womb. One silent second in the world. Not ready yet. The doctors shake their heads at his blue, unmoving face. His eyes open.
Mama, look at at me.
Two years old, walking in mama's heels. He falls, breaks his ankle.
Mama, look at me.
Ten years old, he pops a wheelie over a pothole. I watch him and his blue helmet with the red flame decal --that I thank the lord I made him wear-- fly through the sky. He breaks his arm.
Mama, look at me.
Seventeen years old. Where is he? His car is gone and so is he. There's a party tonight. He'll be drinking.
Late in the night, I get a call. I haven't slept. The police found a car crashed on its side. It's his. The driver is dead.
Mama is looking.
Baby boy, please look at me.