The moment is short and sweet, as the pain and enlightenment of it is eternal. The years will lap in time and turn to decades and decades into a lifetime, one which shall be shared, sought after, and regarded by a few pairs of eyes that follow with love. It is a bleak room filled with only the necessities to bring and cherish life: a welcoming walnut stained floor with a window to the world a bustle outside, the bed prepared and comfortable enough to distract from the wires and the monitors that surround it, and the accompany of women dressed in blue drapes that encourage the maker – the mother – to push and to push and and again. And yet, it is the dreary hospital lights – with a steady hum from the force of power flooding through its wires, with the stunning bleak white it shoots onto the bodies entangled below that breaks the sense of comfort and instills a sense of urgency and humanity – that makes them all wide-eyed and awake from the groans of the woman laid in bed.

The nurse has to strain her voice to come over the pressure within the room, every ounce of glee stricken with the impending fortune of the future of events all trapped within this singular moment meant to last and live on, but constricted into a few hours. “Push!”

No lightning struck, no bell tolled, no friends or family jumped out behind the curtains in cheer and laughter, no priest delivered a sermon or a choir a hymn, no attendees offered hushed condolences. No one held their breath for it was over as soon as their lungs had filled with air; their hearts shook within their ribcages, sent fresh blood through their bodies, and their eyes joined in awe upon one set of eyes that looked high and wide with wonder.

With calloused hands, he took the pair of scissors given to him and saw the babe switched from the nurses to the woman on the bed – both overtaken with exhaustion but fought diligently to simply relax and reach for each other’s souls as they shared a moment of longing. It was a swift clip that cut the moment from time. It cut him suspended in the room and her soul, so careless and curious, she stared at him as if he could speak naught but truth and answer all of the universe’s questions if simply to ease her mind.

How lovely she was in his arms. So petite, so fragile, able to break within a mere moment and laugh or cry interchangeably like a penny rolling across the floor, but the depth of her eyes outdid the size of her head, and the sparkle and shine of curiosity in them would make even the feather on the scale float. How weightless he felt. How irrevocably, undeniably weak was he with her in his arms; kept close to his chest and to his heart where she might hear how he flew and stopped within this moment for her. How lovely she was, resting safely in his arms while he soared with his feet planted firmly to the ground as he looked into her eyes.

As he kissed her forehead, he whispered so that just she might hear. “I love you,” he told his daughter. 

And he will love her, from this moment to the next, through every sweet morning dove song to the days caught in storm clouds. He will love her and always see the same eyes as the ones he whispered his whole heart’s truth to. He will love her even when he cannot see her anymore and remind her of those very same words every moment when she soars and remains fixed to the earth. And he loves her still, as she wraps her hand around one of his fingers and looks to him as if to whisper the same, and they rise into the moment, fall with the hymn of the lights, and come back to meet each other’s eyes. 

copyright © 2025 by Camille Hunt