Suitcase for two:
Miniature hat—dwarfed by the palm of my hand,
For a head that has never seen the sun;
Diapers—impossibly, laughably small,
For a little bottom that likes to play bumper cars with my ribs;
Tiny socks, tucked next to mine,
For toes that have never felt the cool, almost-spring air.
I hold them up, chuckle… but then I think,
If I don’t pack you socks, who will?
In a rush, the weight hits me—the profound, couched in the mundane:
Your feet, cold and tinged with blue, will be mine to warm;
Your body, unfathomably small, mine to clothe;
Your bottom, baby soft as they say, mine to diaper;
Your life, priceless and unwritten, mine to guide;
Your heart, never wounded, never betrayed, mine to protect.
Alone but together, I check in: “Room for two, please.”
In the corner, your pint-sized bed waits.
Check-in as one, check-out as two:
No instruction manual, no warranty, no receipt for return or exchange,
Just a smile and “Congratulations! Good luck!”
And a balloon.
Ride for two:
We roll out to greet the wide wondrous whelming hope-saturated universe.
Two lives, forever entwined, blinking in the welcoming sun.
I sigh, the weight of the world, a shiny new life, cradled in my arms.
Silently, I pray that the world will make room for two—room for you.