The Anniversary  by Monique Despres

There is rain outside. The sky is dark and the wind is whipping through the trees.

The fog is blocking my view of the ocean. The scene is quite different from the mountains I gazed at a year ago from my hospital room.

At this moment a year ago, my daughter's parents had just arrived to share in the birth of the baby they had waited for so anxiously. Her dad left to sleep in the waiting room while her mom stood by speechless knowing there was nothing she could do to ease my pain.

Back home, it was the first day of school. I knew my students would wonder where I was. They had watched my belly grow all summer and shared all the joys of pregnancy with me. We would laugh together as they caught me rubbing my belly once again. I wasn't rubbing my belly anymore. Today it is still rounded enough to remind me of the thrill of feeling my baby kick.

This year I'm in a new school and the year began more than a week ago. To my students it will be just another day. As I great them this morning, none will know what this day is for me. I will put on my smile despite the rain and dark sky and rejoice in each of their lives. They are somebody's children and I know that no matter their circumstances, there is a woman out there who can still feel the pangs of giving birth to them. I will have to stop myself from hugging each and every one of them.

A year ago, I walked around a labor room in New Hampshire wondering if it was safe to tell anyone where I was. I could barely focus through the pain. At this moment a year ago, I had no idea when my daughter would arrive. All I knew was that I longed to hold her. The midwives offered me incredible support. A doula held my hand and wiped my brow with a cool cloth.

It was beautiful that day. There was still the trace of summer in the air. I felt God had blessed me with the weather and by leading me and my unborn child safely to New Hampshire. It had been a long drive, but I felt Him take over as soon as I walked through the hospital doors. I wore blue sweatpants and a cartoon T-shirt streached over my perfect round belly. I looked all of sixteen though I was almost ten years older.

God is blessing me today as well. A sunny day would be a cruel contrast to my feelings. The fog is appropriate. I will need it to get through my day.

At 10:08 this morning, I will be teaching seventh graders about angles. Somewhere in the room will be a man who has come to observe me as I teach. He will not notice that minute pass. He will not know that the entire class he observes will mark my first moments with my daughter. He will not see me holding her in my mind, marvelling again that this perfect being came forth from my own body. He will not hear her first cries or see me trying to wrap her blanket tighter to keep her warm in her new environment. He will not see my delight in her head of thick black hair. It looked coarse in her first moments of life.

Somewhere in New York perhaps her mother will examine her. She may notice the changes in her skin- from the dryness at her birth to the sweet smoothness reserved for babies. She may notice how much bigger her hands and feet are. She will make my daughter laugh and shower her with kisses to celebrate her first year of life. Perhaps my daughter's father will examine her belly button and recall the moment he cut the cord that tied my daughter to me. His face will beam with the same pride of a year ago. Maybe he will recall the flowers he left by my bedside as I slept off labor.

In stolen moments, I will imagine I am there. I will send kisses through the sky. I will hold her in my heart all day today. She is blessed. She is perfect. I will celebrate her.