I am afraid of not loving her, afraid of her crying without reason,
afraid of the ringing in my ears. I am afraid of forgetting,
afraid of remembering, afraid of the moments edging past,
the photos I haven’t taken, the days not noted, the friends not seen.
I am unusually afraid of what people may think, afraid of naming her,
of not having played her Mozart while she was still inside,
of the rising cries (“ah lah, ah lah”) that hit the walls,
of the white noise CDs that I haven’t made,
of not loving her, of not doing enough.