Initially at least, I was allowed to be broken. I’m not sure you ever were. Instead fielding a steady stream of enquiries in earnest, lowered tones: “How is she doing?” “Is she eating yet?” “Did she sleep last night?”
But he was as much yours as he was mine.
And yet you rose: with a grace and a strength, to carry an impossibly small coffin, shake hands and meet eyes, see to it that it was done right.
And still you rose: stemmed the tears, returned to work, to see to it that we weren’t at least financially ruined.
And again you rose: through the gut wrenching fear when our second was on the way, and then our third, to see to it that we made it through – whatever the outcome. We were forged in this fire.
And now still, you rise: punch-drunk with love for them, still staggered by all that the last five years has brought, but seeing to it daily that you give them your all.
It’s an honour to see you father all three. Two in our arms and one who you hold so very close…
I sometimes see him clamped like a little monkey to his Daddy’s chest…