I held her for forty minutes while the room watched

I held her for forty minutes while the room watched,

my sister standing in the doorway like she was timing me,

waiting for my face to do the thing

that faces are supposed to do

when you're holding something this small,

something this warm.

Her head was slack against my arm,

the scalp still soft, still damp from sleep,

and I could feel the small vertebrae

through the skin like a prayer I didn't know,

and all I could think about

was my own pulse, loud in my wrist,

the weight of her, exactly seven pounds,

the math of her,

and how I was supposed to feel overwhelmed

but instead I felt the tile floor

through my socks,

the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen,

the sound of someone's car outside,

everything but the thing I was supposed to feel.

My sister asked if I could imagine

having one of my own someday,

and I said yes, and meant it,

and meant nothing.

The baby shifted in her sleep

and I held still because I thought

that's what you do,

and I waited for it to come,

this overwhelming thing,

and it didn't come,

and I was almost grateful.