He
was a real child
And
he had a name.
But she
never knew him.
She
never once
Bounced
him on her knees.
The
milk of her breasts
Never
ever filled
His
tiny stomach.
Her
son’s personality
Was
either blank
Or
whatever she wanted
To
invent for him.
She
saw his little face
In
her mind
But
she could not imagine it
Growing
Or ageing.
He
was a ghost
In
every sense.
No
words were ever
Uttered
by him.
The
doctor had said
The
baby was a bit sluggish,
And
sluggish he remained
Forever.
So
sluggish
That he
never cried
To be
fed.
Nor
did he reach out
To be
cuddled.
His
teeth were still
Dormant
in his gums.
His
eyes would never adjust
To
the light of day
And
the blackness of night.
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