The weight of three pounds
I know it exactly.
Remembered by my body,
Engrained in the crook of my left arm
Where I held him for four hours
Before saying goodbye.
I carefully cradled his fragile body,
Even though I knew I couldn’t hurt him anymore.
Supporting his head like any mother would
With any newborn, breathing or not.
My body remembers the weight of his three pounds precisely.
I can conjure up the feeling at any moment.
It is all I have left of him physically
Always there, always resting.
Three tiny pounds (and one ounce) peacefully placed in my empty left arm
Carried with me every day, everywhere.