As I walked to work one day in Islington, London, I passed an infant school and suddenly the sadness of being childless that lay buried beneath the surface erupted into tears and I chose instead to head for a coffee shop and write these words to ease the pain:
Tears of Fading Possibility
I cry for the child I will never have; for the gentle gurgling of a baby I will never hear; for the innocent, questioning eyes that will never bestow their love; for the little hand that I will never hold, walking to school for the first time; for the Christmases I will not host as Santa; for the grazed knees I will never soothe as the easy tears flow; for the parental wisdom I will never impart to the encyclopaedic sponge; for the teenage growing pains I will never curse and endure yet secretly cherish; for the trials and tribulations we will never share and overcome together; for the aching heart with pent up love never to be spent; for the deep and understated social belonging through parenthood; for a life pregnant with fading possibility.
And yet I wipe my tears for the life ahead, for what I may enjoy, that I may no longer mourn and instead make my life rich by my own unique gift.
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