The Quiet Life

by Aaron D. Smith

In the sterile room,

time bends, the air brimming

with fulfillment.

I stand at the edge of their joy,

hands steady, heart open,

waiting for the first cry to break the silence.

This is where miracles come wrapped in blood,

where love spills out in gasps and sobs,

where parents hold their whole world

for the first time.

I see it all,

trembling hands, a face breaking like dawn,

tiny fingers curling around a future too big to name.

I am a witness, a steady presence,

grateful to hold this moment,

to hand over a life fresh and unbroken.

But sometimes,

in the hush between contractions,

I feel the edges of something unnamed,

not envy, but an absence,

a quiet cradle never filled.

And yet, I smile,

because my room of threnody is their ground of hallow,

because for a brief moment this new name was used once before,

because their joy should be enough.

When the lights dim,

I clean my scrubs, fold the sheets,

erase the evidence of birth like a dream before waking.

I think of her waiting at home,

the quiet we hold together,

the past that fills our future in ways unseen.

Some plant gardens, others marvel at wildflowers.

I water the soil,

watch life bloom from hands not my own,

and still feel the warmth of the sun.

This is enough,

I tell myself,

as I step into the hallway

where void begins again.