Not Remembering

I don’t recall him being born, my son.

Not enough, anyway. I remember scenes

from the day: the blood; the unexpected

bright colours of things that came out in the

amniotic fluid; the hospital smells; the

echoes; and the dawn, the brightness

of the early morning sunlight. I remember

his surprising black hair and scrunched

eyes and seeing his mother’s nose stuck on

his face. I remember those things. But I don’t

remember the feeling of him, coming to me

in that moment, being suddenly real and here.

I don’t remember that. Becoming a father

crept up on me. I wish I had paid

more attention.

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