By Eve Lyons
I remember waiting.
I remember calling the Target in Little Rock to reserve a car seat.
I remember taking on the phone with his first mother,
I remember meeting her in Chili's with a guy who looked like David Crosby.
I remember eating breakfast every morning at the Marriott.
I remember how the first night we both woke up every two hours, because he did, because we couldn't sleep anyway.
I remember how big his hands and feet seemed, and how his skin peeled off like something primordial.
I remember his belly button didn't want to let go of his umbilical cord, so the doctor put silver nitrate on it, which stained his shirt.
I remember all the people coming to visit in the first month, how he smiled for the first time when he was just a month old.
I remember his first word was "yesssssssss."
I remember him pulling himself up to standing, learning to crawl, how pleased with himself he was.
I remember how long we waited, how much heartache, how much longing.
This poem was first published in Literary Mama on May 11, 2014