The One Who Never Was

 

When I think of babies - when I let myself think, when I let myself remember, there is always Dawood, the one who never was.

Most days, most years, I don’t think about him, but when I do, I can still feel him. 

Time can heal wounds, but not a mother’s.

What would he be, these thirty-one years later?  What manner of man?

Don’t look back, don’t wish, be grateful for now.

But, still, when I think of babies, when I let myself remember, there is always Dawood.