You came early, and I was young.  Blue the color of your soft bear.  Blue the band on your father's cigar.  Blue, your face upon my first glimpse.       Blue, this mother's heart.

     Someone was yelling, oxygen now!  

     Abducted from my arms, my early birthing memories are of tubes and of your small form.  I could have cradled you in one hand.  Later I did.

     Gasping to be leaving, I went home the next morning, no insurance.  You remained contained, no insurance.  I returned within the hour to hold vigil near your isolation. 

     Later, but not much, I learned all about umbilical cord strangulation and the inner workings of your tiny chest.  I began to form opinions about physicians.  I no longer gave a damn about a good bed-side manner.  From your first lack of breath, I wanted the brightest mind and swiftest touch, regardless.

     Later, but not much, I memorized the shortest route to the closest emergency room. And when we traveled, before every trip, every vacation, I drew maps for locations of immediate care. How many times this became useful, I've now lost count.

     During the first year of constant trips and tests, I repeatedly licked your skin for fear of tasting salt. 

      You were smaller than your childhood friends.  More delicate.  Yet, I wanted to encourage your independence.  I, the ever chest-heaving watchful.

      In our home, inhalers bloomed like blue roses in every nook and cranny.  In my purse.  In glove compartments.  Bookbags.  Lunch boxes.  Jean pockets.

     You grew.   You didn't see me frozen by the shore, the pool, the slopes, the fields in all your play.  You didn't hear the daily prayers, except when I tucked you in at night.

       Exhale the wind to one fast forward.  You tower now at 6'2".  Your smile infects.  Managing on your own with a devastatingly low lung capacity,  we do not speak of those years when you held my hand at length as we soared together across backroads and highways seeking air.

 If I could paint those hours, your steel blue eyes clinging to mine would forever flee  this grey matter and spread across some canvas.  Spread as your limbs.  Spread as your ocean.  Spread as your sky.

You, my strong son, my blue dolphin.

for Luke, 2009