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its golden hide。 The unprehending look of the mother as she licked him； expecting life。
Birth 出生（3）
My neighbour was convulsed by a sob。 “Such a beautiful creature – and only fit to be buried。”
I thought of her forebears： generations of women in rural Ireland； some of them still living； who gave birth to still…born children because they didn’t have access to the medical services they required。 Their babies were taken away in the dead of night to be buried by the men in unconsecrated ground： secret little graves； soon overgrown and forgotten。
I imagined the depth of those mothers’ grief； the searing pain of loss； a nameless tragedy shared by no one。 “Such beautiful creatures – and only fit to be buried。”
And I wondered； would those women have wept over a calf？
The closest I have ever e to the mystery of life： a Premature Baby Unit。 Watching a tiny scrap of life in intensive care struggling in agony for each breath。
Twice already he has given up and had to be resuscitated。 The staff say they can do no more。 The rest is up to him。
Twelve hours ago he was safe from harm。 fortable； secure； in the warm embrace of his mother’s womb。 This is what he got instead。 He is alone。 A sign says ‘No Touching’。 Each part of him is either punctured by a needle or attached to an instrument。 Only his suffering cannot be treated。
“Why would he want to live？” I say to the nurse。 “What attraction could life hold out to him？” She smiles。 “He’s getting the best possible start。 From his point of view； things can only get better。”
At that moment； the sun rises： a big orange on the winter horizon。 A ray of hope falls on my newborn son； and suddenly； his breathing seems less laboured。
By the end of the day； he is out of d
