Arian's First Breath
That morning, I prayed
to flickering exit signs,
to humming fluorescents,
to anything that would listen—
in that sterile room.
Then—
your cry shattered the air,
like dawn cracking open night,
sharp, sudden, necessary.
I knew every whispered prayer
had been practice
for this one moment.
Your fist, smaller than my thumb,
gripped my finger with fierce certainty—
someone who’d spent nine months
building themselves
from my blood and breath,
arriving here
where metal rails catch light,
and antiseptic air burns sharp.
We named you Arian—
but you had already made my hands shake,
not from fear,
but from holding something
that could shift the axis
of every morning to come.
Love is not gentle—
it’s sharp as a blade,
cutting through
all I once thought mattered.
The room fell silent—
nurses moved like whispers
around our circle of three.
My thumb traced the curve of your ear—
so small, I feared 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’d just finished
the hardest work of your life,
and decided
this strange, bright world
was worth
the trouble
of breathing.
Copyright © Saeed Koushan | Year Posted 2025
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