You wish there was more time between the head pushing forth and the crying to wonder about souls and to watch for this one to enter. something your mother calls a miracle, and you choose not to argue because some lies are better told than untold and it sounds so nice besides. but you think too long about the six billion people and how they are all born very much the same way, how it’s all programmed cells knowing their jobs, and you walk from delivery to waiting, everything between your palms a new life, or old life in a new body, or something that does feel a bit supernatural. and you hold him steady – fulfilling a promise to be in the room for support, but mostly for watching and stroking her hair and trying to remind her to breathe – while they discuss his likenesses and your brother begs you to take his son away from all the germs and dangers of the hallway. and you feel destiny in the bodies pushing, their eyes too close, shaping him while he sleeps or cries to be fed.