#44 Katherine, Roanne and Nicholas

Ode to my wife, our son’s other Mum

The night-held terrors, not outlined clearly, twisting, and turning in his dreams.

And you there. First.

The fevers that grip him, skin a parchment aged.

A febrile forehead, bathed with cold water in a never-ending cycle of coloured washcloths.

Hung out to dry like Tibetan Prayer flags.

You held your breath as his first steps, through the tables and chairs and safety fence and the dog and the detritus of life and love and family, were to you.

The court appearance/ceremony where you hovered, vibrating with love, bewilderment, awe and

Anger at not being the other name on the paperwork.

The constant, nagging little worry, plucking at the visceral being of

You

Who is not

On paper.

Yet is everything.

All the same, we don’t like to think about

the what-if-something-happened-to-Katherine-because-it-makes-us-worry-and-nauseous-and-make-grand-statements-about-running.

So you hold

Your breath

Hovering, vibrating, waiting for that permission.

A piece of paper

To take away the scary big thoughts of what-if

And let you think of

Right now

You who named him.

Sacred and right and as if he had always been,

Nicholas

Son of Roanne