I trace my fingertips along the soft cotton,
The cotton which dances so effortlessly of animals,
specks of colors dripping from their fur.
The onesie, so light and delicate,
Weighs my body down, the grip becoming unbearable.
I have to let go.
I have to let go of colic and baggy eyelids,
Of the waft of Jergen's babies body wash,
Of the first sound released from his plump lips.
I have to let go.
I have to let go of washing Crayola smudges from the fine beige walls,
Of unidentifiable pictures drawn specifically to me from liquid glitter,
From the plethora of pictures that I force you to take.
I have to let go.
I have to let go of my creation, of my life, of my happiness,
Of my boy.
You should be learning letters and figures and numbers,
Yet you lay among dirt and rubble,
Shoved into an abyss of blackness, of coldness.
You should be shoved in the warmth of my arms.
I can't let go.