Shattered plastic, Roaring glass

"One in eight new mothers have post partum depression" Our number was called last year. As I return to the day of our birth, so many deaths occurred. One of them being the death of pride. I no longer had the ability to say I was okay because you weren't silent. You waited months for me to smile, laugh and accept what God blessed me and one year later I am humbled by your presence, your gift, and your fight for me to be better. You cried until I held you so I would remember what it felt like to touch , you stared at me until I would look down and kiss your forehead. Little by little you kept me going but you needed me to get well so you would be well. I remember every day praying that this day would be better and you always believed it would. It stopped raining, I stopped drowning, we began living. My dear son you will be one and I will be skin to skin holding you , laughing with you, telling you the day you were born was they day I was called to be better, to see and appreciate the fragility of living . I would never redeem our number for the sake of dismissing the pain....I would never deny the beautiful lesson and journey you brought me. I will never be able to silence suffering nor blind my eyes of it. I welcome it with a mothering gleam whispering ..Happy Birthday son, Happy birth day to us.