My little astronaut

You were perfectly formed: your feet, your nose, little hands, eyes closed. While I was trying to love you, you were leaving me – a reason it seems for the ambivalence that came over me just days ago, a premonition that our connection had been severed, perhaps.

The midwife said you look like you had recently passed, fresh if you will, not like a baby who died a while ago, so the movement I felt only four days ago may have been true.  It may have been you letting me know for the last time that you are here. You were here. My body, your body: proof.

I held you while I bled.  You fit in my hand, your umbilical cord stretched out broken from where it should have been attached. My little astronaut floating in the space of my body, now set free.

And now, I love you, this is certain.  I miss the child you might have been, the man perhaps you may have become.

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