Exhausted from the ordeal, she lay on the bed in the recovery room. She called out for her husband, but her voice didn’t carry. No one answered. She opened and closed her eyes several times, not able to make sense of the time of day. She wanted water. She wanted to know where her baby was.
She wiped a tear from her cheek, heard a door open and turned her head to see. Standing at the doorway was her husband with a bundle of blankets in his arms. He looked at her and walked toward her. His gaze never strayed. The mask still covered his face, but she could see him smiling.
When he reached her side, he lowered the load onto her chest. He raised the head of the bed so she could see. As he transferred the weight, their hands embraced. But her eyes were locked onto the eyes before her. Her arms wrapped and pulled, and her breath stilled. She thought of the name they’d decided upon. Isak. In Hebrew it means one who laughs. She smiled, imagining the years to come. Isak’s eyes were trained on her, gazing in.
In the background she heard her husband calling the grandparents, making the announcement they’d been anticipating. She felt her heart surge, then settle back. She turned on her side, tucked the baby into the space between her arm and her chest, her head cresting at the bend of her elbow. Now the baby’s breath puffed onto her skin. Her eyelids fluttered shut. Life would be different from now on. From now on, this life would come before all others. This child would dominate her attention, her emotions and time. She shut her own eyes and drifted off.
No comments:
Post a Comment