After…
Immediately vulnerable, he cowers. Like being ripped suddenly from the womb he limpets without thought. The first instinct is to protect, to hold and stroke and soothe, a stream of comforting words that must sound harsh to his newly-listening ears, a touch that must feel like branded hot to skin so sensitively alert.
Head full of cotton wool he mumbles of the journey she’ll never know. Of the journey he doesn’t understand, but is respendent and glorious and home. And when the trembles begin, she is quick to protect some more, cocooning him, basking in the delight of being needed so wholly and utterly. Desperate to keep him safe, to ensure he understands. He is loved, and cared for, and good, as the colours fade to reality and once more they are real.
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