Empty Arms

With empty arms, I kissed my baby goodbye and touched him for the last time in my life. The hospital man said he would take good care of him. I watched through tears as he was wheeled out of the room until he disappeared from view.

With empty arms, I walked down the hallway of the maternity ward that seemed to stretch a mile, past the nurses’ station receiving many the sympathetic look. It felt like the walk of shame, with nothing to be ashamed of.

With empty arms, I left a place that held so many new lives, one already finished. From one of the rooms, I heard a newborn cry, the first cry since I arrived. The cry of a new life just beginning, still so many kisses to be given.

With empty arms, I walked through the double doors, down the elevator, through the lobby, and waited by the front doors. A proud father walked out with a smiling big sister to bring around their car.

With empty arms, I waited for our car with my nurse. I looked back inside the building where I had parted with my baby minutes before. In the lobby, another nurse stood behind a mother in a wheelchair, a cart next to them bearing gifts and a car seat with their most precious gift of all.

With empty arms, I sat in the passenger seat with a memory box on my lap, all that remained of my baby to take home.  Empty arms, empty womb, full of memories.

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