Sarah Kate

There was a lot of light in the hospital on the very dark night that Sarah Kate was born. There was light in the nurses who quietly and respectfully cared for us.  There was light in the doctor who delivered her when he quietly but adamantly shooed away the medical students who crowded in through the door to witness the birth.  There was light in the friend who stayed by our side until she was born and acted as her nurse, and congratulated us on our beautiful baby girl as she placed her into my arms. There was light in the lullabies we sang to her.   There was light in my baby’s eyes as she looked at us knowingly. There was light in her tiny squeaky breath that sounded like the mews of a newborn kitten.  There was light in the blanket we wrapped around her that my mother had made for her.   There was light in the three hours of life she bravely gave to us.  There was light in the delivery nurse who brought a tub of water and soap and a sponge, and then quietly slipped out so I could bathe her privately after she passed. There was light in the love we felt for her and in her beauty and in her chubby fingers and toes and in her head covered in blond-tipped dark hair.  So much light that night.   I still stand in awe at the stark contrast of all the light on that very very dark night.