We folded paper boats with clumsy care,

your tiny fingers pressing mine,

soft with spring,

soft with beginnings.

The stream giggled over rocks

as if it knew

we needed laughter.

You ran ahead—bare feet

crushing dandelions with joy,

calling back to me,

voice bright as the sky.

I called your name,

but the sun,

always the sun,

would not let me see your face.

We watched ducks drift past

in lazy choreography,

you asked if they ever cried—

and I said,

only when no one is watching.

You nodded,

as if that made all the sense in the world.

You made another boat,

this one with a flag,

and declared war on sadness.

Time moved strangely,

as it does in joy—

not quite forward,

never back.

The wind smelled like lilac and promise.

The grass made halos around your ankles.

You laughed like you’d never known

the weight of waiting.

Then—

lemons.

Their sharp brightness pierced the dream,

cutting through sunlight

and the soft hush of water.

Lemons and antiseptic,

white walls blooming around me

like prison lilies.

The crinkle of paper not boats,

but gowns.

Tears, not yours—mine.

Again.

Again.

But even as the nurses hushed and moved,

even as the emptiness

screamed its name into my womb,

your laughter still echoed,

a ghost with golden edges,

sun-washed

and faceless.

And I—

I still fold paper boats

on sterile sheets,

wishing one might carry me

back

to the boy I almost held

in a spring that never truly came.