I held you, mottled pink and silicon-fat arms. I gazed at you, with amazement and fright. I fed you, in the dark hours when the world had stopped except for us. I rocked you, when nothing else helped.
I changed you, picked up after you, I helped you to walk. I weaned you, I tickled you, I helped you to talk. I read you books, and again and again. I answered ‘what’s dat?’ and ‘why?’ and ‘but when?’
And each day passes and I realise: You’ve grown!
And now I teach you, though it’s nothing like school. We read, because there are never enough books. We talk, because there are never enough questions. We play and race and chase in the cold and collapse, laughing, in a heap in the warm. And always I save time to make time to spend it with you.
We dance, though we can’t and laugh, because it’s funny. And it’s hard to remember a time before you. (Though not impossible.)
Then evening comes and one by one you fall into my arms, your head on my shoulder, your tired body folding into me. And I love you so much: more than anything.
That’s where my time has gone.