TITLE: Lament of the Aborted 4-1-15
By Lois Lewis
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I’ll never see yellow daffodils popping up in springtime
or make a wish and blow out candles on a birthday cake.
You’ll never hear me giggle at the sloppy kisses on my face
from a round-bellied puppy.
We’ll never hold hands, yours big and mine small,
making sure to look both ways for cars as we cross the street.
I’ll never wake to the sound of a bird singing,
or see a butterfly or a rainbow.
You’ll never fill an Easter basket with jelly beans and a chocolate bunny
or hang a Christmas stocking with my name on it.
We’ll never lie on our backs watching the clouds
and try to make out animal shapes.
I’ll never fly a kite on a windy day, or run home
with a bouquet of wildflowers I picked just for you.
You’ll never show me how to tie my shoes, or help me
color inside the lines, or point out the man-in-the-moon’s face.
We’ll never build a snowman or laugh making snow angels, and after that
drink hot chocolate with marshmallows.
I’ll never learn to say my ABC’s, or write my name or read a book.
You’ll never tell me a bedtime story, or listen to me say my prayers
or hide money under my pillow from the Tooth Fairy.
We’ll never sculpt a sand castle or collect shells along the seashore,
waves tickling our toes.
I’ll never climb in bed with you on a stormy night
afraid of the thunder and lightning.
You’ll never lift me up to see a parade
or push me higher, higher in a swing.
We’ll never blow kisses or give hugs, or say “I love you,”
or dream about what I’ll be when I grow up.
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