Avian Child
Chapter Two
I remember being taken from my mother and the warm hands of a Nurse rubbing off the sticky substance that was my blanket inside my mother. My wails were loud and vibrant showing my mother that there was nothing to worry. At least there was nothing to worry about on my end. Behind me my mother was lulled into a sleep brought on by the happiness of my cries. It seemed that she knew she would no longer stay with me. Had I understood at the time I would have calmed and stayed silent so she would stay with me.
Behind me a flurry of nurses and the doctor tried unsuccessfully to revive my mother. It seemed that the flat line called my father back into the room as she burst in screaming at them to save her. All of this commotion made my wails louder. He screamed and screamed and in return I did also. I screamed so hard that my tiny body passed out from the exertion I was putting onto myself. The nurses sweet lullaby lulling me into a fall sense of security.
When I woke up next I was in a room with many other babies. I was dressed in pink. Pink, my mommy taught me about this color. It was the color that meant I was a girl. That I’d grow up to be just like my mommy. Pink, the color that signified the ever strong bond between my Mother and I. Oh how I could go on about this color all day. My mother’s favorite color. The color of the rose my father placed on her grave. The color of my room walls and my sheets and my covers. My doll house was pink to as were most of my dollies clothing. Whenever my father made me scrambled eggs he would add pink food coloring. Or when I got dressed for school I would wear pink. Or if all my pink clothes were dirty I’d have back up pink in my scrunchies that held my hair into two neat little pig tails. My father would joke that I was his little piggy. Not because I was pudgy, because I was, but because Pigs were pink and I was pink. My whole life my skin held the hue of pink, more so than other little boys or girls, even adults. Pink was my color, my nick-name and my middle name, Pinkly.
I could feel eyes on me and my bright blue eyes darted around until they landed on a man staring at me through a big window. That’s my dad. I knew right off the bat. My mother told me so much about him. How she hoped I would get his dark brown hair. I did, but I also inherited my mother’s curls. He had a strong jaw and stubble. It looked like he hadn’t been asleep. I didn’t want to be asleep. For ten months I was in a dream like state and now all I wanted to do was greet the world and say hello. I did. With a very loud wail that made my father jump and smile with pride. It also made a few new by babies wake and wail also. My father could tell right then and there that I would be a handful. He wasn’t wrong.
Behind me a flurry of nurses and the doctor tried unsuccessfully to revive my mother. It seemed that the flat line called my father back into the room as she burst in screaming at them to save her. All of this commotion made my wails louder. He screamed and screamed and in return I did also. I screamed so hard that my tiny body passed out from the exertion I was putting onto myself. The nurses sweet lullaby lulling me into a fall sense of security.
When I woke up next I was in a room with many other babies. I was dressed in pink. Pink, my mommy taught me about this color. It was the color that meant I was a girl. That I’d grow up to be just like my mommy. Pink, the color that signified the ever strong bond between my Mother and I. Oh how I could go on about this color all day. My mother’s favorite color. The color of the rose my father placed on her grave. The color of my room walls and my sheets and my covers. My doll house was pink to as were most of my dollies clothing. Whenever my father made me scrambled eggs he would add pink food coloring. Or when I got dressed for school I would wear pink. Or if all my pink clothes were dirty I’d have back up pink in my scrunchies that held my hair into two neat little pig tails. My father would joke that I was his little piggy. Not because I was pudgy, because I was, but because Pigs were pink and I was pink. My whole life my skin held the hue of pink, more so than other little boys or girls, even adults. Pink was my color, my nick-name and my middle name, Pinkly.
I could feel eyes on me and my bright blue eyes darted around until they landed on a man staring at me through a big window. That’s my dad. I knew right off the bat. My mother told me so much about him. How she hoped I would get his dark brown hair. I did, but I also inherited my mother’s curls. He had a strong jaw and stubble. It looked like he hadn’t been asleep. I didn’t want to be asleep. For ten months I was in a dream like state and now all I wanted to do was greet the world and say hello. I did. With a very loud wail that made my father jump and smile with pride. It also made a few new by babies wake and wail also. My father could tell right then and there that I would be a handful. He wasn’t wrong.