My grandmother’s mother gave birth.  The boy she grew and nurtured ended in France.  Launched into the trench, his name letters on a wall in Ypres.

An internal examination with my obstetrician.  Nine months pregnant with a baby boy in arms the next day.  The man-child, caught on the cusp between, not much younger.

Now the day means distance.  Cards and flowers posted amidst sugar cravings.  Chocloate hearts.

You have not been shot in the prime of life.  You are inside me and will never leave.  Even though your wings won’t fly, your heart beats the tattoo of Valentine’s love.

by Alexandra J Cornwell

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