We Wait

Waiting for a storm of muscles and blood and bone. 

A hurricane of life in ten little fingers, ten toes, a snuffling nose, a tiny heartbeat. 

We wait and breathe and pace. 
I put my shoes on, ready my bag, down a cup of coffee. 

I take my shoes off and wait for the squalls to condense, the fury to magnify. 

Departure is soon, the delivery imminent: a language I can understand. 
She scrunches her face and watches the clock. 

We wait for the word. The car is packed.

I have my camera ready but don’t know when the moment is right. 

We drive into the night, white streetlights streaming behind.

They check, they monitor, they leave. They check, they ask, we leave.

Not ready, they say. 

We get home at 4am and sleep.

I have never wished for someone’s pain to increase, to joyfully anticipate another’s grimace- until now. 

I hope it builds and rounds out, that the momentum continues, that your son is born tonight.

We wait and you drink Coke and we walk around the block, your belly huge under a too-small tank top.

We wonder what the neighbors will say on our second lap in the middle of the street in the moonlight.

We wait and walk and wish for you to cringe in welcome.

Pain and life and joy has never been so apparent, so intermingled, so embraced.

We wait.