This was the date that should’ve been.
It catches me every year
like the gasp of a plot twist I almost forgot.
While all the world waited
on an inhale for your first big cry
you were reserved, belated, biding your time.
‘Not yet cooked’, your Grandma joked
as if I really was the oven
and you the bun
or like a library book I wanted to keep
just one more week.