The Gift

I was given a gift one day,
To be present at a birth.
My grandson, unnamed but already loved
Was about to meet the world

“It will be too difficult” one said.
“Aren’t you afraid for her?” asked another.
But it was the right thing to do, I knew,
And timing is always everything.

Arriving at midnight, I came prepared
To wait and to support and coach.
Crocheting to cover the insecurities
While waiting room worries filled my head.

The second daily doctor diagnosis began.
“Let’s hurry things along” she said.
Drugs dripping into mother’s veins.
“Hold my hand, mom, hold my hand.”

The third day, anticipation while the process begins.
An intensity of feeling for the sublime,
And she knows her limit and herself;
Just in time she accepts help and relief.

And I watched her change from woman to thing
A birthing thing that groaned and growled
As instinct and centuries of sounds emerged
To carry her past the threshold of now.

And the new life greeted me with a cry
And those of us in the circle wept.
For the miracle unfolded once more
Mother and child touching skin for the first time.

The truth is this: we are all sons or daughters.
We traveled like my grandson through a canal
Into this world of light, sound, touch and love.
Make a place for him, please, this new one.