In the Dark

By Elaine Westnott-O’Brien

I dart awake. 

My eyes adjust. 

The darkness is incomplete:

The monitor glows blue 

Emits a ghostly light,

A plaintive baby bleat. 

You are a grainy image

Black and white.

A study in monochrome. 

You move in your cot

As you did at your scan:

Your first photo, your first home. 

I feel as removed from you now

As I did then;

Not quite disconnected,

Not without love,

Just a little scared,

Unknowing, and unprotected. 

You mewl again

And I sit upright

Begin the short-long journey to your room

Your cries intensify

My steps get quicker to quell

The ache inside my womb.

I lift you up

I hold you close

You smell of birth, of stork.

You settle, whatever I’ve done

Has done the trick

But I’m still in the dark.

Elaine Westnott-O’Brien is a writer and teacher of English language and literature.

She writes in all forms, and has been published in The New York Times, The Wild

Word and Ink, Sweat and Tears. She lives with her wife and two young children in

Tramore, Ireland. 

Find her on Instagram @elainewob_words.