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Personal Note:

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Poem

That morning I prayed to flickering exit signs,
to the hum of fluorescent lights,
to anything that would listen
in that sterile room.

Then—
your cry pierced the air
like dawn cracking open the night,
sudden and necessary,
and I knew every prayer
I'd ever whispered
had been practice
for this one moment.

Your fist, smaller than my thumb,
gripped my finger
with the fierce certainty
of someone who had spent
nine months
building themselves
from my blood and breath,
arriving here
where the metal bedrails catch the light
and air burns sharp with antiseptic.

We named you Arian,
but you had already
made my hands shake—
not from fear,
but from holding something
that could change the axis
of every morning to come.

Love is not gentle
at all, but sharp
as the edge of a blade,
cutting through everything
I once thought mattered.

The room fell quiet.
Nurses moved like whispers
around our circle of three.

My thumb traced the curve of your ear—
so small I was afraid to touch it,
but to not touch felt like turning away from light.

You are here.

Later, when they ask
what it was like,
I will tell them
about the way
you yawned—
once—
your bottom lip trembling
like a leaf before rain,
as if you had just finished
the hardest work
of your life,

and decided
this strange, bright world
was worth
the trouble
of breathing.

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