Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

A cry

The things I used to think of babies
Ranged from ideal to fearful
In the sense of greeting card sentiments
Beset by fringe stories of terror,
As well as the inherent selfishness of man
Which ever works against innocence
And everything that resembles it.

But somewhere along the line
I found a balance, sometime after
Finding myself in the intense stare
Of the dark and questioning eyes
Of a baby, covered in blood
After a short but terrifying trip,
But somehow not making a sound just yet.

He was new, and yet nine months old,
Who, though as inexperienced as anyone ever was,
Knew exactly who I was and what he needed,
And did what we have all since
Grown to disguise in maturity: he cried,
Because it was all that he could do.
And somewhere in answering the cries
Of this child's singular focus, I remembered
How to depend so strongly and desperately.
To not fear the cry, but to instead fear the depth
Of the love that answered it.

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