The birth of a child has always been one of my greatest curiosities. When I was 4, I would ask mom how I came to be her daughter. She would say that I was specially delivered by airplane to the top of our house. My father had heard me crying and ran up to get me. She would add that everyone was happy to welcome me, especially my parents. My sisters and brother would try to get me upset by telling me a different version of story of my birth. According to them, mom saved me from a ribeira (water that flows down after a lot of rain) and felt sorry for me. I knew none of the versions were true, but the mystery of my birth continued and my curiosity increased. I’m not sure when exactly I learned the truth, but like most things growing up, it was a process based on listening to others’ conservation, my own observation, and thankfully my avid reading of books I mostly found at my 80-year-old cousin’s library.
A few days ago, I had the opportunity to be a part of what few have had the privilege (and/or stomach) to witness: the birth of a child. The baby came out faster than I expected. She opened up like a fresh flower on an early spring day, ready to take it all in and give it all out. Her first breath of fresh air… her first cry... unaware of all that life has been, is and will be. She came out full of possibilities. She held my hands, those little hands, wet and slippery. Her long fingers wrapped around one of mine, pulling it, demanding my attention. I felt her telling me, “I’m here. I’m here. Look! I’m here and I’m strong.” I cut her umbilical cord. As I witness her mother’s smile and the baby’s soft murmurs, I wished that their emotional umbilical cord would never be severed. I wondered what she will be and I prayed that her life will be of love and grace. A disconcerting cry coming from the other room interrupted that once-in-a-lifetime moment. It was coming from a girl who was suspected of provoking her own abortion. Life had come on the heels of death. Maybe life would triumph, at least for now.
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