48 Hours [4/30]

Forty
Eight
Hours
A fraction of time
Printed boldly in Times New Roman
Streaming on the ticker tape of my mind
Altering my perception at 19
And changing my life
48 hours of contractions
No sedation
Prodded and poked
while running the last lap to
the finish line of gestation
a boy
a girl
a plan
God’s divine hand
Placed in my womb
chiseling the last of his face and

48 hours of nervousness and
hesitation
questioning God
like really?
Are you sure? and
answers coming back
with sharp pains
Then crowning me mother and
presenting me with roses of strength
Bond in a blanket
Placed in my arms
Sleeping peacefully
Making faces while dreaming and

48 hours of me smiling
insanely while sleeping
Never knowing til now
if it be Queen or King
He or she
Just glad my petition
Was granted by He
Just let ‘em be healthy
All ten toes
Ten fingers
a nose and
Eyes like mine
to stop me
From yelling when angry
Cause me to stop flinging words
That may hurt and think
Remind me that this is a part of me
The earth of me
The best of me and
That he
be blessed with the
ability to think
analytically
politically
individually
stand chin high
know his power
but sometimes I wonder
did I pray too hard?
lie too close to the floor?
because He gave me
all I asked and a little more
stubbornness
selfishness
a bit too much arrogance
and the ability to talk back
making me want to strike back
and often times I did
irritated by what looks abnormal
but is standard teenage ego tripping
and as 48 hours introduces itself
to two decades
I still struggle like I did then
struggle with this
man-child’s destiny
his independent thoughts
decisions I may not agree with
but must step back and
not interrupt life’s professors
what often appears
to me as acts to self destruction
inflicting more harm than good
in the name of making his own choices
growing pains that don’t seem to
spawn growth
but it his 48 now
his time to make decisions
his time to begin living
searching
constructing his own visions
that who I once called boy
is now on the hunt
to become man and
I just want him to grow
into his second name
Ashanti
A name that rest at
the head of a community
warriors,
fighters,
providers,
kings
I just want him to
open his eyes and see
but I can only sit back
Allowing the seed
I planted to breathe
and maybe his first
and middle names
shall meet
merge and formulate
the identity of a man
who can step boldly from
his own 48 hours
of alteration
knowing his life
will never be the same

© Erika Gresham 12/21/09