The longest day was the day spent waiting for my daughter Rebecca to be born. I knew she was coming. I had that burgeoning knowing that is a combination of sheer weight and intention, and has nothing to do with thought. I refused to stay home that day and went instead to Harvard Yard to the Blue Parrot and little shops in that atrium they have there. Walking a short bit and then sitting down, I reminded myself of the birds you see in the street who never actually fly. They just move out of your way and then continue to walk about.

It was unusually warm for October, and I had reached that point in physical growth where I could witness the pitying looks of passers by as I sat in the sun. At four o'clock exactly I boarded the train to cross the river to meet Rebecca's dad-we were supposed to look for a new car. The dealership was virtually empty, and you could smell cigarette smoke despite the aggressive air conditioning. The minute I stepped inside I had a strong pain.



The shortest day was the day Rebecca was born. From the time we left the car salesman, nervous and wringing his hands, and glad to complete his abbreviated test drive, it was only an hour and a half until Rebecca greeted us with her golden curls fresh cut from the sun. Time was measured out in pains that grew wave-like until my psyche cried out to surrender to them and let the aliveness be born. The doctors and nurses installed me in a little room with orange cabinets and went away to let me do the work. When they returned twenty minutes later, I was "close", and they ran around putting on their blue clothing and speaking to each other in forced whispers.

"Why didn't you tell me she would go this fast," the doctor said, pulling on his gloves.

"I checked her, and she was only two centimeters-and that was only twenty minutes ago," the nurse said in her own defense.

Rebecca was born sheer moments later, and she would have come whether they came back or not. She came-as the invited guest who arrived too early and sees the shoes not kicked under the bed and the table not yet laid with cutlery. She came too quickly for me-I still refer to it as falling down the rabbit hole, but she came at last- with life, and made the day too short. All the firsts-first look at her, first holding of her close to me, first blush of motherhood as I took her still bloody from her journey, into my arms- all came and went too quickly. It is only my memory that can stretch the truth of time.

copyright © the author, 2000