Room for Two

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.