One of these days,
I will hold you, here, on my hip,
and take you outside to see the skyline.
I’ll point out that orange light,
on the horizon,
That’s not a fire light.
It’s a factory’s’ security lights,
And the thick smoke cresting
isn’t a forest fire, it’s the chimneys pumping.
One day, when you were only this big,
This tall and this thick,
At the brink of life on earth.
When the pain passed severe,
quick, fast, past room for tears,
where groaning, and kneeling brought no mercy forth.
When apparently the force of my muscles trying to bring you forth
dropped your heart rate.
Threatening your birth date.
We had to make sure you were ok.
We had to cut open to save
You from my uteruses efforts to give you life.
And in that light, I should say, that I wont always be right.
Neither will you.
The trouble being that we are human.
While you will grow up to Ngong hills, Christmas tree adorned,
I grew up to a Shelly Beach that lived up to its name.
And more will have changed,
And much will stay the same.
One day, I’ll have to watch you walk away,
On your own two feet.
I’ll feel both joy and sorrow.
But for now,
You are just this big,
This long, and this wide,
And I live to see you smile,
We needn’t worry about tomorrow.