The resident told the nurse that he felt nothing but membranes.
I closed my eyes, and the pressure was finally released with a gush of water.
His feet slipped out, and I was taken to the birth place, a place I would never lay eyes on.
“This is not the way it’s supposed to happen!” a woman exclaimed.
A few dozen screams and one long push, that’s all it takes to give birth to a tiny, silent baby.
“Time of birth?” “3:51 a.m.”
I was taken back to the antepartum room, and I finally reopened my eyes.
It was dark and quiet. My voice was hoarse and my belly empty.
You came, congratulated me, and asked whether my son had a name.
“Peter,” my husband said.
You told me Peter was alright,
And I was finally able to cry.