The Eve of What Would be His 30th

Adam Rogers Gillette, born at home on
05/22/84, weighing in at
over 10 pounds. He died 16 years
and three months later,
and will never be forgotten.

Thirty years ago today, I don't remember what
I did or what I said or where I went. Waddling
around about to pop with pregnancy, three
little ones already, the others born in different
towns, but with a doctor and a hospital and
all that goes with that. This one, no. In so
very many ways, this one would be unique.

Thirty years ago tomorrow, holding him, the
only baby born at home, I fell in love and never
got around to falling out, not when he'd make me
cry or need a spanking, when I listened as
he laughed and played outside or seeing him
with family, friends, or teams. Not looking at
his long, still form there in the hospital, before
he left me one last time.

Thirty years ago today, would I have traded in
the sixteen years ahead, to save me , save us all,
from such excruciating loss, the ache that
rests there just beneath the surface of my skin?
Those sixteen years were precious, friend,
and worth the pain, just like the pain in birth
is worth that moment when you hold your
child the first time, wet and squalling, and
you count the toes and fingers.  But you never know,
not really, what the future holds.

The only truth, the only absolute you know is that
 at the moment, you're in love and hope you never
get around to falling out.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014