The Correct Amount of Time

The room smelled like antiseptic

and someone's cold coffee.

Her face was red and compressed —

features still working out where to settle.

I held her for what felt like the correct amount of time.

Smiled. Said she was beautiful.

She might have been.

My arms went numb from staying still.

I handed her back with both hands,

careful, the way you pass something

to someone who's watching to see how you hold it.

On the drive home I tried to build something retroactive.

Warmth, some shift I could attach to the moment.

Nothing.

The overpass, the orange lights, the exit signs.

I know the shape of what I was supposed to feel.

I stood in that room and the shape was empty

and I handed the baby back

and said something about driving safe.

She was three days old.

She was fine.

I keep saying that

like it answers something.