Bright New Day: A Short Story

“When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; what is man, that thou art mindful of him…” – Psalms 8:3-4

She had a child last night, actually in the wee hours of the stolen morning when everyone and everything was still asleep, oblivious of the miracle that had just occurred. She was alone, a sometimes daughter, now a full-time mother, alone in the world save for the bundle of joy full of wishes and a mother’s love. Her mother died when she was eight, a hazy memory at best, but she could still remember her mother’s smile. It would light up a dark room with a brilliance that was radiant to see. This is her only memory. She is determined to make her daughter’s memories of her more spacious, roomy enough to keep snug but not too large as to snuff out other memories.

Her daughter will have all the love she can fit in her parka, a brand new gift from the Salvation Army, one of only six given out this Christmas to “holiday babies.” Sometimes she worries that she will die too soon, a victim of the horrible evils she knows were done to her own mother. Sometimes she worries that she will not be able to impart the knowledge she has about life’s little intracacies, like boys, and girlfriends, and lazy summer days when work is paramount but play is preferred. These thoughts invade her mind only sometimes, but not often, because she has already planned for such possibilities and she is as secure as she can possibly be in these arrangements. She does have a sister who lives in Spokane who said she would take the child if it came to that. She hopes it will never happen.

The father (can he be called that when he doesn’t even know the child exists?) is eons away, even though he lives in the rowhome just three blocks down and two avenues over. She hasn’t spoken to him since that night he got her pregnant (she can’t think of it as conception, not what he did to her), and if she has her way she will never speak to him again. He is a no-good loner from the “wrong neighborhood” her father would say. She hasn’t seen her father, come to think of it, in an even longer span of time, himself a victim of desertion. He said he could not take the responsibility when he left, and he never returned. She has ceased to feel sorry for him, and for herself as a result. Time has not healed the wounds but has cauterized them so they don’t leak. This is good enough for her, for now, but it won’t be enough for her little girl.

Olivia is asleep now for the first time in her short life, her chest perceptibly rising and falling with the beat of the clock in the corner, an endless repetition that is beautiful to this young mother’s ears. She kisses her child on her nature-shaved head, holding her close enough to smell the fresh baby-smell present in every newborn since the beginning of time. She knows everything will be alright, or some reasonable facsimile thereof, and she allows herself to drift off to sleep as well. A bright new day is just waiting to dawn, when she finally awakens.

Sam