The first time, you were my little seed. Five weeks old. Just a sesame, they said. I knew you were much more.
From poppyseed to blueberry to kidney bean, that autumn you made it through a riot of shapes and colours. I laced a nest of fingers around my belly; thought I kept you safe.
I was wrong.
This time, I stay as still as you allow. I curl into a ball, bedbound, and count the minutes, hours. A knot of prayers inside my hands.
My little mango, twenty-three weeks. Sweet. Plump. Almost ripe. Almost.
I need you to reach twenty-four.