I had held that life in my hand once. There was a never a question that would come to it, that life would be safe by my blood and hand until I had neither to aid.
But still that moment was there. A moment where I held that life, to feel it moving in my hands, and heard its breath as it would sleep.
Everything was certain and all was in its place, and as that life would sleep, so too would I rest as I watched it in my hands.
But tomorrow always comes, as the night will chase the day. And what was the certain only then becomes what will not return again.
That life has grown and made its way, its own path now being walked. And empty are the hands which held, the life once their holding its own.
All as an illusion it would come to be and pass. All at once as tough it had not been, yet all there had ever been.
A prompt response.