Flowers now grow over the body of her rather than adorn her face with the joy of seeing them.

He cries often; straining to hear her voice to soothe him; remembering it from the womb, he searches through each spoken dialect.

How could she have left? He felt her intense love from within through the synapses of the umbilical cord; food flowing constantly from the placenta; he looked forwarded to smiling up at her and receiving again the life giving foodstuff she would offer.

Now, who will let him play without restrictions; ride his trike within her glance; run in the wild unclothed; climb mountains to catch the sunset;

Who will help his mind to grasp the wonders of life and expand the limits of a giant rummber band the tough stuff love is made of.

Who will teach him of the Creator's promise that once again they could be one?

Who will raise this Baby?