9 am – (1)

With thumb firmly in mouth,

she was born,

seeking a hold in a precarious world.

With closed eyes, she searched.

She found me – her sustenance for food,

more importantly, she found

my pillow and the corner.

It was twisted with milky spit

and tight little fingers,

perfect for rubbing on nose,

while the thumb in mouth

made a satisfying sucking sound.

 

Never meant to be carried,

it went everywhere.

Unforgivably I washed it,

took three days to dry.

Inconsolable, she held the damp corner,

until it dried smellier.

 

And the stuffing was removed.

We flew overseas and I was terrified,

not of crashes but of losing my child’s treasure.

The pillow was cut into many pieces

and every pocket, every bag

contained one.

 

When she turned twenty-one,

a piece was stitched into her memory quilt.

And when she married,

a piece inside the dress -something old.

One piece is mine –

memory of a time,

when it was my child’s

most cherished possession.