I flew
amidst the bumpiness of air currents
Not knowing that between land and cloud
It wasn’t wind, but Death blowing in, come to snatch
The final breath
Of one who would never reach
His 2nd birthday.
How did I stay aloft?
Kiss a boy?
Gawk at heron nests?
Grumble at the effort my neck made to hold my head back
Throat exposed
Sternum arched upward
It was I who was posed for surrender and death,
But Death wasn’t coming for me.
Twig nests in the rookery, woven piece by piece
Will outlive
the little soul
Awaiting the final hand off
Leaving his mother’s arms for the last time
To be delivered,
Ever so gently,
To the one who can hold the cooling form
Of a being
Once a boy
Once alive
Now a memory
Beaten, stiff, by genetic codes
Hidden in flimsy little double helixes, weighing less than the blink
of little boy eyelashes on little boy cheeks.
I baked meringue cookies
With my living
Breathing
Son
Aliveness pouring out and through us
Almost without us knowing
As we measured
Stirred, blended,
Beat egg whites, stiff, by hand
Waited oh-so-impatiently 30 minutes
Until they formed and hardened.
The molecules of sugar and egg and almond rearranged themselves,
came together anew in perfect union,
As Isaac’s molecules came apart
Slackening
To release his soul back –
Back to what?
Leaving his body done, finished, as my kitchen timer beeped – our work, too, done, finished.
The excruciating delay until they cooled.
In 30 minutes my house filled with the aroma of meringue, toasted almonds, lemon zest. The smell and taste of Life.
In 30 minutes her house emptied itself of the sweet smell of little boy toes and belly and the crease in her baby boy’s neck where he hid his deepest scent print, surrendered, permanently, with his head arched back.
Death came amidst the current and winds
Amidst Life banging and clanging
Demanding to be lived
Planes to be flown
Tulips to be picked
Shells and sea glass and rocks to be crunched under foot
Cookies to be baked
Youngsters to be kissed and squeezed
While Death, sweet unfair merciless merciful predictable Death, steals
The color from the tulip
A babe from our midst.