~

This year, I find myself remembering

the night I spent in the waiting room

 (I wish now I’d been with your mother but 

those were much different times) finally 

hearing a phone ring, then the call from

across the hall, “Congratulations, 

Mr. Wile, you’re the father of a giant 

economy size baby girl!” 

Still, I wasn’t allowed in to see you 

until late that afternoon, after I’d 

wandered the village streets dazed, aware only

of the sun on the water and white boats

in the harbor. (Did I eat? I don’t remember.)

~

Until your mother and I walked down 

the hall to the nursery, where you lay 

with two other newborns, as big as both 

of them together. I stood before

the nursery window, paralyzed 

with awe. It all was too intense—

the waiting, the news, the village green, 

the blue water, white boats, my love for you.

~

Only later, all these years later, after

the arguments, the divorce, your anger 

at me, our reconciliation, your

shortened life, my prolonged anger at God,

my reconciliation, can I fully,

finally say how grateful I am for

the miracle that was—and remains—you.

~