Morning Poem

You wake up laughing
And pointing at things
At the photo that smiles
The kettle that sings
You chat to the window
And people below
Enjoying the taste
Of each sound that you know
The morning’s for moving
Your body’s for bouncing
And spread-fingered reaching
And full-body pouncing
And as I fill like an inbox
With things I must do
You say, nothing’s boring mum
Everything’s new

Adam

prod-syria-gas-attack-victim

Photo: Getty

What do you want?

“The antidote, and for this to stop” says the man on the radio.

“If we had enough antidote we wouldn’t have to send patients to Turkey for treatment.

“It is a long way and they might die before they get there,” says the doctor, who probably imagined setting bones and a stable paycheck when he did his medical training, not telling gasping victims of Sarin they’d run out of medicine, and worrying that his family might be next.

My baby girl flicks her tongue in and out of her mouth and laughs in her high chair, milk dribbling down her chin. She opens her mouth like a starling for each spoonful; chomps messily and vigorously with the joyful unselfconscious-ness of being one.

Yesterday another mother made breakfast for another child, a beautiful boy with coral cheeks and thick black hair. She urged him to finish his plate, then go and wash his hands and play with his brother, and now he is gulping for air and my little girl is dancing to the sound of the sirens that are coming for him.

On my iPad on the kitchen worktop, men desperately hosing down stiffening bodies, people trying to rip off infected clothes but it’s too late, limbs have stopped responding to brain. Seventy two dead so far, twenty children, Assad says they bombed an opposition chemical weapons depot, everyone else say it’s the regime’s Sarin, deliberately applied.

I nearly cried when Mariam had her vaccinations yesterday. Clamping down her limbs as metal sliced into soft legs, I watched her scream in pain and disbelief, tears pooling beneath her grey-brown eyes. Then the calm as her sobs subsided in my arms, the rush of relief as she started singing again on our sunlit way home. Who would have known every inch of her would be so precious? Every second, every sound, every wisp of hair. Every child to every mother.

I wonder what the boy did yesterday, the one who is dying on my iPad and doesn’t have a name?