The Weary Traveller

He came early.

Grace was brushing her teeth before bed

when the contractions started.

Eight minutes. Six minutes.

Four. Three. Midwife.

“It’s happening here,” she said.

I tore down the shower curtain

to put on the bed, and boiled water

because that’s what they did in movies.

My fingers left pearls on Grace’s skin

pushing back against contractions

that got farther and farther apart.

The midwife, drinking coffee

from a pot I don’t remember making

said, “Time for the hospital.”

Grace cried and told dirty jokes

between hits of laughing gas.

Her mother brought us dinner

so we wouldn’t eat hospital food.

Push, push, push

Breathe, breathe.

The baby and mother’s heart willing,

the body not.

“Cesarean,” they said.

They cut into her, uprooted him.

The OB held him up over the curtain

like a ten-cent magician.

He was purple from the cord,

his head arrowed from effort.

A triumphant cry from a weary traveller.

My lungs filled so deeply, a year later

I am still breathing that moment.

“Come with me, Dad.” Oh, me.

Scissors in my hand, another magic trick.

I cut the cord and he wrapped tiny fingers

around mine, a new tether.

I wanted to wash him, with Grace,

So I could talk and she could sing.

He would know us verse, chorus, verse.

They finally handed him to Grace

clean and perfect.

Her colour returned, the sight of him

making her bloom.