Each of us has a bundle of memories. I have a particularly large bundle that includes many ridiculous, detailed memories of things like what I wore on the first day of third grade. But out of that stack of life's memories, there are a particular few that I long to re-live. I am hopeful that after this life is over there might be some virtual reality sort of way to re-live some of these most profound, visceral experiences.
Like the singular experience of having Jared Carter placed directly on my chest. He cried through his first few breaths of life, as the nurses stood behind me and rubbed his tiny yet robust little body clean. I cried simultaneously. Here was my baby boy. The one I'd fought my bad health for. The one I'd known was a boy all along. The one I'd secretly worried the most about. After all the days of nausea and the sore legs and all the patience I could muster. Here he was.
We lay there together a long time. He on my chest, wrapped in a clean white towel. His little long-fingered hand found my finger and grabbed on. Hello, son.
Tired but happy,
Anne
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