When I can’t sleep, I count befores and afters.

Before and after I was born to my mother in a hospital in East London when it was still a shithole. In the photo album I got given after she kicked it, she’s holding me swaddled in a flammable yellow blanket that has a crusty brown fag burn visible by my temple. She wasn’t a bad mother for the eighties, but always had a fag in her mouth and it was inevitable fabric scorched when she got affectionate. I got off lightly – my brother has a burn scar in the cheek he covers with pro-formula foundation.

I will not be that kind of mother. I linger on that promise, before moving on.

Before and after my brother came out, and we were all so happy for him.

Before and after she killed herself, and we got so screwed up again.

Before and after Youtube, where I found my people.

Before and after I met him.

Before you. 

Sometimes I fall asleep before I get to you, but not tonight. I concentrate on your tiny ear. It’s the softest, most buttery smooth half-wheel of heaven, and smells of lilac talk and baby skin. I have never smelled it yet, but my nostrils flare and I inhale and inhale and he shifts beside me, as if knowing something is awry. He will be your dad.

            In years to come, you’ll tell me I should have been more discerning in my choice of men, and I will say the thing parents always say when children speak like this: and then I wouldn’t have had you.

            In my mind I follow your ear, smaller than a single orecchiette, and it leads me to your flushed cheek, pink from where your skin has recently become unstuck from my skin. Your skin and mine are a continuum of young and older, child and mother, and we are one.

That you are a mere creation of my longing is a mere inconvenience. Only time keeps us apart.