JACKIE THE MORNING YOU WERE BORN

JACKIE THE MORNING YOU WERE BORN

The morning you were born
I arrived late for your delivery
for a reason I can't remember
your mom's c-section was pushed
forward an hour ahead of schedule.

So with nothing to do
I waited in a strange room
sitting on a small chair
pretending to read
an out of date magazine
its text blurred by
the pistol rattling frenzy
of a couple of nervous knees.

Then suddenly...like an actor...on a stage
your kind and matronly pediatrician emerged
pushing what appeared to be a toaster on wheels
making me aware of...with my tummy's rush
the usual egg and cereal breakfast
I failed that morning to eat.

The good doctor summoned me to rise
and take a peek at...pardon the pun
my Jackie in the box
she lifted the glass lid
and you were curled up,
eyes closed, hair stringy,
and fists clenched about
the size of a pair of lima beans,
you were a pink bundle of joy
no bigger than a kitten.

Afraid you'd catch my germs
I was reluctant to lean in too close
but the doctor insisted that I touch you
which I gingerly gently did
before you were hurried away
to neonatal care as a precaution.

As you vanished...I saw your mom
flat on a gurney hooked up to an I.V.
a masked man was wheeling her
up to me but she was still dopey
from the anesthesia, barely conscious
slurring her words, snorting her nose
from the disarray of her mind I heard
"I want to call her Jacqueline."
And so you were named.

The scene sent me soaring
into such a euphoric state
that it took me weeks to calm down
to a more normal sense of happiness.

by L DOUGLAS ST OURS
September 2010