I recall it all, thrown into the blood-on-white chaos of the delivery room, the shrieking people and the beeping of man’s life machines, the stark light first seen through closed eyes. It was all so different from the floating, dark serenity of the womb, where my thoughts found the peace of patient solitude, where the murmuring world outside was but the whispers of ashen-winged angels as they held watch over me.
I’d a memory of having been here before, and a wish to know these souls newly introduced to my own, to one day shelter them as they would cradle me, in my infancy. Yet, there was a hunger, to find the souls I’d known before, and a ravenous need to find one in particular, one without which, I would always hunger, living and dying again, famished, impoverished, lamenting in the internal disquiet of unrequital, my soul becoming a vagabond, never knowing a home.
In the trees outside the window, a lone bird sang her morning song of grace, and of needful longing, and I knew then– that she was here in this place. I’d need only find her, again. I’d need only love her more deeply this time, as she’d deserved to be loved. As surely as I needed air that I may breathe, I needed her love– that I may live.