Why Don’t They See the Miracle?
I remember the close warmth of the Texas night, the small bedroom with its peach-toned walls, and the humid air punctuated by my mother’s swift, hard breath. I remember the smell: the pungent scent of the herbs I’d been told to boil, the greenish scent of olive oil, and a scent I’d never fully encountered before, that of skin and blood and sweat in a heady mingling of sour and sweet.
“Stand closer, hon,” said Tami, my mother’s impromptu midwife. “I need you to hand me that towel as soon as the baby comes.” She looked at my mother, my exhausted, tense-muscled mother, and nodded. “One more hard push.”
I watched my mother close her eyes in a sheet-white face blank of every emotion except hard concentration and pain. I watched her sweat-soaked chest rise, saw her teeth set at the last, and I witnessed the cost of that push upon every nerve and muscle in her body.
And then all I saw was the baby.
She was born. In a rush ...1