I can't type today.
My fingers are trembling and the words are locked inside my brain, screaming to get out.
They are all caught up in a lump in my throat.
They flutter around like Monarchs in my stomach.
And I just can't catch my breath.
All day today, I've been breathless- deflated and wrinkled like an old abandoned balloon, shriveled from the memory of the inflations of the past.
The are going to take my baby.
They are going to take my son.
The child I carried in my womb for seven months. The one I for whom I was prepared to die so that he might live.
The precious baby that I grew at my breast, and swore on my life I would protect.
They are going to take him.
They will put him on a big orange bus,one that he's only ever seen in cartoons and pictures.
They are going to strap him down, ignoring his protestations, and drive away with him.
And when he cries, there will be no familiar faces to console him. No recognizable voices. None of the comforts that he has clung to his entire life.
He will not be able to ask for help. He will not be able say that he is scared. He will not be able to say if he is hurt.
Never before has his wordlessness been so tangible. So real. So terrifying.
"This is what we do", They tell me. This is their profession. They will take good care of him. They will see the words in his eyes, hear the voice of his body, listen to the whispers of his soul.
But They don't know him. And he doesn't know Them. They are strangers to him.
And he will be terrified.
He will not understand why it must be so; that this is the first brave step into a whole new world of growth.
He will be confused. He will be angry. He will be hurt.
And I won't be there.
Even though I promised him I always would be.
I hope to God he will forgive me.
I hope to God I can forgive myself.