The Birth of a Poet
Twenty-five years ago, she laid on a cold hospital tray waiting for her to be tend to. Her over grown stomach was about to release all that it had been fermenting for nine months. The movements inside of her were unbearable for the youngster, for the first time in her 19 years of life, pain struck like a lightning targeting a palm tree on a wet stormy night; splitting all the palms in a thousand pieces until destruction was imminent. More painful than the look on her face was the constant twirling and shape shifting of the enlarged stomach; stretching of skin as if it was meant to be torn apart and give way to a warrior.
Loud grunts could be heard down the aisle, the frown in her face portrayed her demise. The time had finally come, it was her turn to demonstrate her bravery to the world. If only she knew that this was just the beginning. With each grunt the ache increased; reminding her of what had brought her to this situation. If she would have only listened to her mother’s advice, or only inquired a bit more as on to how to take precaution. It was too late for any of that now.
The clock kept ticking and with every struck she felt it advancing outside of her; moving like a lost worm inside of an apple, searching for a gasp of fresh air. The night was cold and her feet were uncovered, her finger tips gripping on to the hospital sheets. Her face was sweating cold and pale. The vein that ran down her forehead kept popping out with any effort of strength. Her eyes were tired and struggled to keep exposed; the time was now and nothing could get in her way. It was minutes to midnight and one last thrust was required in order to expel the beloved parasite that she has been hosting and given her life for.
Within the blink of an eye her worries, stress, pain, anger and rage against the world transformed into a bundle of love she called Pitufa. She could not believe what had just happened and the speed at which it occurred. There it laid, uncovered and smeared in blood with chunks of the amniotic sac still attached to its skin, on her bare chest embracing her warmth. Tears were not enough to cover both the pain and pleasure that a single instance in life could have supplied.
Unable to express or even dare describe her emotions at the time, she sobbed with child in hands. A reason to live had been born, she was able to feel the wind of change. She was no longer a child, a teen or an adolescent; from this moment forward she will forever be seen as a woman. The road was not paved and many obstacles were on their way, but nothing would be able to block the power she had gain with her new victory; the acquisition of a child…
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