Withered words,

long since wrung

of emotion,

wrested me.

They took me back

to a time,

when the consultant

rolled competent sleeves

over corpulent arms.

To the moments

he pushed and prodded,

craning,

to test where tenderness

blooms.

To a womb

warm with gestation,

vibrant with vital signs.

Where scans spoke

in soft crescendos

to muffled beats.

When a heart pulsed

in harmony to its

own cadence.

To the joy of

anticipation,

fighting to force you

from your fluid

home.

To the bleat of

your birth-cry

beckoning me.

To a fledgling,

faltering,

and finding its way.

For the moment

your tiny mouth

molded

for your mother's milk.

To the day

when complications

consumed you.

To the agony

and despair

of an empty cot.

To the words I just read.

“Newborn's clothes for sale.

Never worn."