Not A Fluke

The cries come sudden, sharp and strong,
a wailing wind that wails too long.
I search for ways to soothe the sound,
to bring the peace I thought I’d found.

Once, I blew softly on your face,
a whisper of wind, a fleeting grace.
Your cries gave way to calm surprise,
as if I’d solved the weeping cries.

But days went by, the spell unwound,
your sobs returned, a thunderous sound.
I tried again—a wasted breath,
it only stirred your storm instead.

Once, I spun you round and round,
and giggles burst, so bright, so loud.
The room became a blur of light,
and joy was ours, if just that night.

But later still, the tears came back,
I spun once more to shift the track.
Yet what had worked before with ease,
now only made you cry and freeze.

Once, we bounced down step by step,
my arms, your anchor, strong and kept.
We laughed, we landed, stair by stair,
and sorrow scattered in the air.

But next time, though, when cries arose,
I held you close, the stairs below—
and all at once, you clutched and screamed,
as if I’d pulled you from a dream.

Then came the car, the restless ride,
no stairs to climb, no arms to glide.
No breath to blow, no spin to twirl,
just helpless hands and cries unfurled.

So I reached back—I let you take
my finger firm, your fist, a weight.
And from the front seat, soft and low,
your mother hummed the song you know.

And every time, without a miss,
your fingers curl and cling to this.
The melody swells, the hum holds true,
and peace comes pouring into you.

Again, the car, the cries return,
sharp and sudden, fierce and firm.
Once more, I reach—your fingers find,
your mother hums, the sobs unwind.

Not a fluke, not luck, not chance,
not fleeting tricks or happenstance.
Not accident, nor sleight of hand—
just love that lingers, firm and planned.

This is us—your hand in mine,
a song that soothes, a hum in time.
And though one day you’ll hold your own,
for now, my boy, you’re not alone.