Flowers & Fairy Dust

THE RUMORS ARE TRUE.

It was a Tuesday afternoon.

They say, “April showers bring May flowers.” I had a bouquet of roses delivered in April.

We reported for duty on Monday evening. We looked like two glossy eyed refugees; our joy was being slowly consumed by the fear of what we didn’t know. I carried the duffle bags, she carried the baby.

I felt like a tabby cat dropped in a bath. My claws couldn’t grasp the porcelain and I scrambled and gasped until, at last, my wits snapped me back into reality fast.

I had no hammer to build, or door to open, nor a spider to kill. I was supposed to be there. I couldn’t take the pain away. All she wanted was for me to be there.

So, I was holding her hand until the midwife asked me to grab her leg. It was a furious frenzy of frenetic floundering. It was controlled chaos. I was the school child surrounded by adults.

When the third member of our family arrived the nurses scrambled into action.

There was a flurry of baby blue scrubs and pixie dust twinkling brightly in the afternoon light.

I stood in their midst while they worked, they were cooing to the baby and reassuring me. They were little fairies or angels, none of them taller than my waist.

My bride was recovering.

They handed me my little girl and the world became a swimming pool.

The sounds were all muffled and the background turned to haze.

I looked at my baby and our eyes locked in a gaze. My cup was filled to the brim --time stopped and no breaths. The baby screamed and she cried and I grinned while I wept.