'Possible' by Coleman Bigelow

 

It was the hardest thing possible for Haley to imagine. That she was now a mother–and that she’d done it on her own terms, in her own time. And yet, here she was. Haley and her phenomenon. Her little marvel of wrinkly warmth. This beet red squawking crinkle bus. This extension of self and newfound raison d'être.

When the Irish nurse proclaimed “she’s a girl” with a lilting emphasis on the “irl”, Haley felt herself lifted into the air alongside her girl. Her little girl, who made all the preceding shots and failed procedures, suddenly worthwhile. The sight of this rooting, squirming wonder - tiny arms tensing like featherless wings - offering an exquisite vindication.

The auburn peach fuzz on the baby’s soft crown was the same color as her grandfather’s. Haley’s father, who’d been her loyal companion throughout every sad glance, intimating what a shame it was Haley ‘didn’t have a man’. Her father who had only ever wanted her to find happiness.

Her father who assured that she had what she needed to get what she wanted.

How when her water broke, he’d been there to drive. How, when her contractions threatened to overwhelm, his calloused hand had coaxed her forward while his whispered pride re-energized.

            And her stunning child, who, when Haley thought the pain could not get worse, swiftly silenced all synapses with the first gorgeous glimpse of her arrival. Her bawling babe, who’d grown in Haley’s belly but only filled her up when she entered the world. Skin to skin, proving that miracles truly were possible.

And Haley, who, there, in that room, lay tired and matted and cut and stitched and overjoyed. Haley, who was now both giver and receiver of new life.