My mother loved me into life, honestly.


Them medical folk with coats like blank paper, they thought I wouldn’t last the day out. Told her so.

But she, a woman on her own, smell of insides still clinging on her, she said no. Asked to hold me aside her arms.


They pointed to tubes and machines and man-made things, not realising that she held more respect on the things that be Wo-man made.


They said how the best chance be with them but in honesty she should say her goodbyes now.

They ask if she wants a priest to enter and at that she laughs.


And as all this is being said and the blank paper coats point at their clever machines that have learnt how to breathe breath for you, as this all flows around her I slowly turn blue.


I think on it like a pretty blue, coloured up forget-me-nots, but in all likelihood it was ugly dark like a bruise.

And it be a blue that call to her for she held me close then, looked to me and said ‘Live my love’.


Maybe I feel the beat of her red purple heart, muscle tight with love, through ribcage, paper gown, soft blanket and skin. And it warm me from the inside up. I like to think it so. That her heart was so loud and full that I couldn’t ignore it. Maybe her fingers grip so fierce they pull me back from the next world to this. Or maybe it’s just how things be sometimes.


And the doctors declared it to be a miracle when the blue faded from my bones.

But she knew it would.

As the machines ticked and whirred around her she caught a glimpse through a window stained with other peoples fears and all those last breaths that had filled the room up over the years and a yellow lit up the grey sky from underneath. As if someone turned on a light just then.


And it fill up her bones to know such colours exist and she held me tighter for want of me to see it.


They discharge us a day later. Me wrapped tight deep to a blanket. She wearing a coat too big for her from the Oxfam shop.


How I know this is the picture I have. Keep it tucked tight between lost love letters, old train tickets and a life collected in the shoebox under my bed.


The memories I’ll need reminding of one day.

The ones that tell me where I came from.