The newborn child
opened his eyes
and blinked into the sunlight of the coming dawn.
The open window breathed in fresh air
and he did too,
taking in oxygen for the first time.
Eventually,
the tiny blue eyes of the child
found the curtains covering the glass
and the crack of light they let through.
His crystal eyes caught a glimpse of the outside world,
a world filled with natural beauty,
a world that sang with joy from the perfect chaos of nature.
The birds could be heard by the tiny one,
birds that just wanted to fly, fly,
higher than the sun
and the stars.
The people wished the same,
the ones the child could watch,
pacing up and down the lawns.
But they argued with one another,
and cried for one another,
and embraced one another.
They fought and fought,
watching the shadows play on the faces of the rest
and the tears run down from their eyes,
a silent warning
of any coming storm.
The bright sun was darkened by a cloud,
and the child’s face was concealed in darkness.
When the rain fell,
he watched the raindrops hit the window
and fall to the dusty sill,
darkening his world.
The people outside shifted,
their decisions focused on themselves, using their coats
to shield the raindrops from their already
tear-stained faces.
As he watched,
the lightning flashed a warning to the child,
and the thunder clapped along.
Frightened,
the tiny newborn turned away
and instead rested his eyes on his mother;
he saw the tired woman
who sat across from him on the grey sheets,
her blonde head framed
by the whitewashed walls.
She looked back at her child with a mixture of contempt
and love.
Confused, he searched for a father
to hold him
when the mother could not.
But the only man in the room was an old doctor
with greying hair
and stitches in his old coat
that had been ripped and torn
too many times.
He held the boy up,
and so the child saw the fatigue in his dark face,
the pity in his eyes.
They were grey,
stormy like the clouds
conversing outside his window.
The child was sorrowful,
disappointed in the lack of color in this dusty room
with too many bookshelves.
He heard his mother speak,
her voice softer
than the fierce demeanor that she breathed.
She blinked once,
Slowly,
asking for the child
without words
but with actions.
The doctor obeyed, walking, almost flying
to her with the grace of an eagle.
The child felt movement,
felt himself soar over the obstacles in his path,
his reward being the outstretched arms
of his mother that seemed too cold.
The quiet young woman
leaned over her baby,
allowing her thin blonde hair
to tickle his soft skin.
She whispered in his tiny ear. The sounds,
though incomprehensible to him,
were soothing.
Her voice washed over the small body
and he relaxed,
his tiny blue fist unclenching.
The doctor, too old and tired to help,
looked on with the eyes of a man
who has gone through too much pain.
The mother,
like so many,
let her tears fall, and the dark water
fell from her clouded eyes
to his bright ones.
The tiny,
blue,
unwanted child in her cold arms
looked out the grey window,
and,
for the last time,
closed his
eyes.