When Light Touched Water

Before

The room holds its breath.
So do I.

White walls hum with fluorescent stillness.
Machines blink, cold and unblinking.
Time folds inward,
stretching
without sound.

Outside, it is still dark.
Inside,
I float in the pause between
what was
and what is about to be.

Hands move like waves—
swift, practiced, quiet.
No words. Just the rhythm of work.
The tide is coming in.

My heart is a fist,
tight
around a hope too fragile to hold.


---

II. The Break

Then—
a sound.

Small.
Startling.
Soft as a ripple on still water.

One breath.
One cry.

Waah.

Not loud.
Not long.
But real.
Alive.

My chest cracks open.
Not from pain,
but from something deeper.

Is it enough?
I want to ask.
But I don’t.

The doctor smiles.
The nurse nods.
And someone says,
“He’s perfect.”

Perfect.

The word floats above me,
gentler than the light filtering through the blinds.

I didn’t know
I’d been holding my breath
until I finally let it go—
a trembling exhale,
like the sea retreating from the shore.


---

III. The Rising

They place him on my chest
like he’s always belonged there.

He is so small.
So warm.
His heartbeat taps against mine—
new, uncertain,
real.

His skin smells like salt and sweetness,
like something ancient and brand new.

He blinks once,
not at me,
but at the light.

That’s when I feel it—
relief
crashing into me
like sunlight hitting cold skin.

I thought it would be joy.
Maybe it is.
But mostly,
it’s surrender.
A letting go of fear
and the weight I’ve carried
for too long.

This is the moment
when everything changes.
And it doesn’t shout.
It whispers.


---

IV. Becoming

The world doesn’t notice
when one life becomes two.
When a person
becomes a parent.

There is no trumpet,
no parade.
Just this quiet unfolding,
a soul blooming open
under sterile lights.

And the knowing—
deep and wordless—
that nothing will be the same again.

Not the sky.
Not the sound of mornings.
Not the way I’ll ever say “I” again,
without meaning “we.”

I brush his cheek
with the back of my finger.
He flinches.
Then settles.

As if to say,
“I’m here.”

And in that moment,
I realize—
so am I.


---

V. Arrival

This isn’t just his birthday.
It’s mine.

The person I was—
who doubted,
who feared,
who hoped—
that version of me
washed away
the moment he cried.

What rose in her place
was someone quieter.
Stronger.
Softer.
Certain.

The light is brighter now.
Not outside—
but inside.

Not just around us,
but between us.


---

VI. After

Later, I will sleep.
Later, I will worry.
Later, the world will knock again.

But for now,
there is only this:

The warmth of him.
The weight of him.
The way his breath lifts and falls
like the tide.

I look down,
and he looks like everything—
my past,
my future,
my reason.

The rest of my life
is lying on my chest.

And he’s breathing.

And I am, too.