seven minute swoon

Lucretia has gone and all is calm. My sick little one is finally drinking some water though won't bother with food. His felted frog is water logged like the happy chew toy it is for my boy, and he smiles, yes, he smiles.

Outside the birds tweet. Their chirps sound so sweet, like my boy when he feels good. They've all left the nest and now are resting in the wind, the bitter wind. I worry over birds and boys and forgotten joys and of what tomorrow might bring.

I read about the full moon today, to which some seize and swoon, its pull so strong we belong to it and cannot flee its tremendous gravity.

At five o’clock everything stops and the seizure steels my boy like a thief. Our chests both drum to the sound of heavy rains coming down, down. Seven minutes he is in it and the swoon shows no signs of stopping. My heart throbs and I sob with feelings of sorrow, dread and fear.

Another drug, its vial unplugged. Inside his little body it goes and flows into his brain to stop the train barreling down the tracks. His eyes of glass are so far away. Will he be okay?

Then, out he comes, though quite undone. I carry my boy, this heavy load, down such a long road, alone at times it seems. Sleep, baby, sleep.

Twilight mist, the boy is kissed, and with eyes closed I hope he dreams of vast blue skies and clouds on which to drift. The chicks are gone and until dawn they'll brave the night and the rain, just like my tears, again and again and again.