“Hey.”
Her head rolled back, and when two purple eyes and a busted lip looked up at me, the entire fucking world went black.
six
Daphne: Toaster Waffles
“Alyssa,” I lowered myself beside the birthing mat to meet her eyes. Her body was trembling, shivering from shock and exhaustion that had hollowed out her cheeks.
“I am so tired,” she panted, the weight of her pain resting on her palms.
“I understand,” I said softly, searching for that last glimmer of energy and holding tight.
There was something beautiful about the way women break to bring life into the world. This particular reformation only comes from knowing that immense suffering gives way to a type of love you didn’t know existed until the moment it does.
“I see your daughter’s head. It’s full of red, curly hair, and it’s perfect,” I smiled into her exhaustion. “And she cannot wait to meet you.”
“I love her,” Alyssa’s voice cracked with an immeasurable light piercing through the force crushing her insides.
“I know,” I smiled back. “It’s time to show her how much. One more push with the contraction. Slow and steady.”
A tear rolled down her cheek, resting in the dawn light. Her body had given everything it had for six straight hours, and that she could still form words was an unusual type of magic all its own.
“I am so tired.”
“Alyssa,” I encouraged, careful not to touch her. “You’ve got her. You won’t let her fall.”
Alyssa nodded, unlocking her secret strength.
“Okay. Ready?”
There was a peace there when she ground forward, her body working while a scream broke through her sleepy apartment and into the hall.
“Fuck!” she howled, twisting her body into shapes that never existed before.
“There you go,” I coached while she tore through the crash of muscles caving, ligaments stretching, and pushing. “Keep going.”
She rocked on all fours, naked, digging at the floor. Gravity bent around her, bowing down at her feet.
“You are doing beautifully. Just like that.” I reached down to massage the pathway, making room so she wouldn’t tear. There had to be space for the shoulders.
“I can’t do this,” she said, eyes closing as she pushed harder.
“You’re already doing it, Alyssa,” I encouraged when the baby edged forward, her tiny frame bending with the tide of her mother. “She’s almost here.”
Alyssa’s body broke, everything in her on fire. I swept my hands into position and moved the umbilical cord just so.
“Last one,” I promised. “Final push. It’s time to meet your daughter.”
The lights bent when she bore down, creating hymns until the universe finally aligned and the cosmos responded. And then, as if it were nothing at all, a little soul fell into my arms.
Alyssa crumpled forward, crying when she took the baby from between her legs and pulled it to her chest.
“Just like that,” I praised, marveling at her instincts.
It is the sacred ritual of connection.
Heart to heart. Skin on skin.