Once you’ve finished crying from the intensity of the light, I will tell you what you need to hear, things about life that you’ll learn from experience. I will tell you ahead of time so that your road will not be any rougher than it has to be.
I will place this pink hat on your head and stroke your new face with the back of my finger as I sing you the first lullaby you will remember, soft and low, as you suckle and drowse in my arms, then gasp for breath because breathing is novel. You’ll hear your first lullaby and I will sing it to you at night every night for years.
When we come home you will be safe and warm. I will quiet the dog when it tries to bark. Go to sleep.
Go to sleep. Eat plenty of vegetables. Don’t hit other kids on the playground. Once more on the slide and then we will go home. Keep away from hot things. Pet the kitty nicely. I will have your inhaler. Don’t tease the boys. Or girls. Share you toys. Spend a little money on yourself. Save a little money. Don’t worry too much about money. Bring warm clothes. Dress in layers. Sing if you want to. Draw if you want to. Come to me if you need to cry. Come to me if you want to talk. Come to me, come to me. I don’t know yet if I can make it better for you, but I can promise to do my best.
Sleep here on my shoulder until the sun comes up and I’ll whisper your name.
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