Christopher was delivered by his mother with a small cry into my gloved hands when I was fifteen. His father gasped and I was silent with joy upon hearing a blessed wail from his lungs.
I could see the clock hands moving even though I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that time stood still as I laid all ten pounds and eight ounces of pure existence gently on his mother for the first time. Overwhelmed does not begin to cover how I felt at that moment, and how I still feel upon remembering it.
His was the sixth birth I had witnessed on that day of days — but the only one I touched first.
The one whose head I supported while his body remained in the womb.
The one who I turned ever so slightly to help his broad shoulders into the world.
The one who gave me new dreams before he even took a breath.
Ninety-three births and fifteen years later, my own son – Ellison – arrived more than a day and a half after letting me know he was on his way.
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