5:55 numbers flashing red hot, branding my brain.
Digital clocks tell time. Not supposed to burn indelible memory in your nervous system.
The nurse blankly announces, “hopeless”, as we gaze at my infant son so gravely ill lying across from me. Eyes glazed hollow, intravenous needle piercing his head.
Veins too tiny elsewhere.
Unconditional love. All I knew to do. Twenty-four seven, several months that winter.
In spring, my son released from intensive care, my loving arms carried him into the smells of fresh blooms everywhere, assuring us a future growing from the seeds of the healing power of love.
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Anya Sophia Mann
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