July 1st, 2010
*written June 2009*
We met our baby. The smallest thing: his tiny head, all hair, his eyes like lamps above the water. He wakes up every eight hours in the dim light of the neonatal intensive care unit. You think for the longest time he’ll never open his eyes, that his body is going through too much.
Then he wakes up, and stares at us with the softest, light filled eyes. Not a light in the front–not a shallow shining or glazed-over look. A light that radiates from the back if his eyes, from another world. Beautiful eyes. I’ll always think that.
He stares at me for five minutes, leans into me, then closes his eyes.
Every three hours he cries for food, a thin fast cry but his eyes stay shut. Wailing in his heavy sleep for something his body wants but he knows nothing about. Only knows the fear and the need. He eats with his eyes closed.
I love him more each time I touch him.