Elation for Ellie

Finn chats to Uncle Tickles about his new cousin, then loses interest in the conversation.********************************************************
Life is truly an arena of contradictions, a blighted plain quickly eclipsed by a swirl of emotions and colours that can’t be contained. Or, as my mother says in her quiet Winnipeg way, “You never know from where you sit when the man in the gallery’s going to spit.”

We gathered today at the homestead for Dad’s 84th – and last – birthday. Tickles, Creature, Finn – now know as Super Grumples – and me. Wheelchairs, walkers, rolling meal trays and eject-em chairs litter the living space and a strong medicinal smell pervades the air. We milled about awkwardly, trying to summon cheery smiles and witty asides – festivity amongst the ruins, so to speak.

Tinny music burst forth suddenly from the car seat where Finn lay sleeping.

Creature’s cell phone, announcing its presence.

“Hello?” she said.

A pause.

“Wumb! Is your baby born?”

Tickles and Mom crowded around me, staring at Creature as if she held the key to the universe.

“Yes,” I told them.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” asked Creature.

“A girl,” I announced impatiently to my eager audience.

“When was she born?” Creature continued.

“Today, of course,” I said, “On Dad’s birthday.”

Since I couldn’t divine the name – and Creature was getting irritated at my foreknowledge of all the answers – I silenced myself. Briefly.

“What’s her name?” Creature went silent for a moment. “Helen Elizabeth? I like it.”

Mom gave a sort of ‘whump’ sound as all the air in her body – right down to her stomach – was ejected in a millisecond. She’s never had anyone named after her before.

And so we are joined by Helen Elizabeth, to be called Ellie, born at 3:30 a.m. on May 5th after 48 hours of labour. She has a headful of black hair and weights seven pounds.

What is it that flings these innocent souls at us?...
I see them showering like stars on to the world –
On India, Africa, America, these miraculous ones,
These pure, small images. They smell of milk.
Their footsoles are untouched. They are walkers of air.

...it as if my heart
Put on a face and walked into the world.

Sylvia Plath