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The Night you Were Born

From the first contraction, I knew that night would be different.

I gathered my things, and left myself to meet you.

They said it could take a long time, but we both ignored them and focused on the distance between life and whatever comes before it that we all forget once we’ve left.

You were in between worlds, a place I never knew existed, yet somehow found with ease.

He couldn’t come along, but steadfast and silent, watched over us every step.

As the hours passed, I became the ocean–crashing waves rolling one into the next, and you, my little moon–pulling and pushing tides–guiding me to you, so I could guide you home.

There was a crescendo–a swelling of sound, a bending of space and time . . .

And then you were born–hot, purple, crying.

And a new part of me was born, too–fierce, tender, an unhealing wound.

We just held each other for the longest time because it was frightening and it hurt but we had made it together.

The rest of the day I wasn’t hungry, I couldn’t care about the aches or feel the exhaustion–I could only stare in awe of you.

And that, my little love, was how it went on the night you were born.  The very first of many wonderful, strange, and wild adventures to come.
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