From somewhere deeper in the house came the muffled sound of footsteps,

hushed voices—her children, moving in and out, keeping vigil. Eleven lives,

stitched into hers by blood and time. Eight of them were here now, under

Theresa’s roof, waiting for the moment they knew would come. Some hovered

outside the door, some whispered prayers in corners, others simply sat in

silence, honoring her journey in the only way they could: with presence.

Helena couldn’t see them all, but she felt them. Their nearness. Their love.

Even those who couldn’t be here, she held close inside her heart.

Her breath grew shallower, each exhale a soft sigh against the pillow. But still,

she remained. Hovering at the edge, not fully gone, not fully here. Waiting,

perhaps, for something only her soul would recognize.

​

I don’t know where I am, but I know I’m going inward. Not away. Inward.

I smell earth. And blood. And something else… Rain, maybe. Or salt.

Then pain. Real pain. Not the ache in my bones from lying still too long— but

the sharp, holy ache of my body opening.

​

Helena’s spirit stirred faintly, sensing the door between worlds beginning to

thin.

But she was not ready to step through yet.

            There were still stories to remember. Still loves to revisit. Still forgiveness to

find. Still life to honor before the final breath.

And so she lingered, held between memory and eternity, breathing still. Alive

in love, alive in longing. Alive, for now.​                                                             

                                                                       ***​

​

                                                                    BIRTH

​

The room faded. The sounds, the light, even the weight of her body softened

into something distant, like a dream she could no longer hold onto.

In the quiet space beyond, Helena felt herself drifting backward. Not away—

but inward. Toward the beginning. Toward the places she had once belonged.

She remembered a field. The smell of fresh earth. The endless sky above her,

vast and blue. And the first time she ever felt it— the pure, aching desire to be

part of something beautiful.

The voices, the light, even the pressure of Theresa’s hand in mine— they

softened into silence. Not silence like absence, but silence like space— like

the pause before something is born.

I don’t know where I am, but I know I’m going inward. Not away. Inward.

I smell earth. And blood. And something else… Rain, maybe. Or salt.

Then pain. Real pain. Not the ache in my bones from lying still too long— but

the sharp, holy ache of my body opening.

​

Oh God… I remember this. It’s birth. My own. Not me being born—but me

giving birth.

That first one. The moment I crossed over— from woman to mother.

How could I forget? The pressure. The fear. The knowing. How everything in

me screamed you can’t do this— and something deeper whispered but you

are.

I see his face. My first. So tiny. So serious. And I remember— how after all the

pain, all the tearing, all the surrender… there was only light. And love. And a

silence so profound, it felt like the whole world was holding its breath just to

honor his first.

Yes… That was him. My first.

​