The baby is born
In the moment that he held her his world was silent.
This was the silence of awe. It was unfamiliar to him.
He felt like everything that was magical and important in his life, the libraries he had sat in, the sketches he had drawn, the excitement he felt as he made a point that surprised him, the art that he had seen and tried to explain, the books that he had read and then reread, the people that he liked and imbued with meaning, the straining, pressing mysteries of existence and purpose, all of the tumbling stream of things that mattered were suspended, the frame caught in life’s brilliant projector, and he was left in a hazy silence.
He looked for words: soul, life, world, love, off-spring. Child.
He was holding his child. She was asleep. Her heart pumped against his hands, independent of him and dependent on him without artifice or intent.
He closed his eyes to treasure the moment. Then the projector in his mind clicked and the strip of thought flickered by, gaining speed and falling in and out of focus in a crazy quilt. He was transported and changed and needed to know how, needed to find the precise way to make sense of it all. He squinted in his mind’s eye. In his hands, his daughter slept.