EVEREST
"Hey," he whispers, the word barely formed, as though volume might fracture something sacred in the air. Ever doesn't answer immediately when Isla asks, not because he does not know, but because for a moment he is simply looking at her—at the way she is still trembling, at the way the light catches the damp at her temples, at the fact that she is here and breathing and reaching—then he nods, quick and certain. "She’s absolutely fine," he says, voice low but unwavering. It is almost clinical, the report of it, but there is wonder braided through the steadiness.
When the nurse transfers the bundle into Isla’s waiting arms, Everest feels something shift inside him again, something heavier, deeper, irreversible. The crying continues, furious and indignant, and when Isla murmurs her quiet solidarity to the baby, he lets out a soft, disbelieving breath that might almost be a laugh. He leans closer to the bed, bracing a hand against the mattress so he isn’t looming over them, lowering himself instinctively into their orbit. He studies the tiny, scrunched face, the clenched fists, the impossible smallness of her. He looks at Isla again, and his smile wavers, not from doubt, but from the sudden flood of feeling that rises too fast to contain and tears suddenly sting his eyes without warning.
He blinks once, as if surprised by the sensation, but they gather anyway, blurring the edges of the room. His throat tightens painfully, breath catching somewhere between his ribs and his lungs. "She is perfect," he agrees softly. "You both are." The word does not feel exaggerated. It feels insufficient.
When the nurse transfers the bundle into Isla’s waiting arms, Everest feels something shift inside him again, something heavier, deeper, irreversible. The crying continues, furious and indignant, and when Isla murmurs her quiet solidarity to the baby, he lets out a soft, disbelieving breath that might almost be a laugh. He leans closer to the bed, bracing a hand against the mattress so he isn’t looming over them, lowering himself instinctively into their orbit. He studies the tiny, scrunched face, the clenched fists, the impossible smallness of her. He looks at Isla again, and his smile wavers, not from doubt, but from the sudden flood of feeling that rises too fast to contain and tears suddenly sting his eyes without warning.
He blinks once, as if surprised by the sensation, but they gather anyway, blurring the edges of the room. His throat tightens painfully, breath catching somewhere between his ribs and his lungs. "She is perfect," he agrees softly. "You both are." The word does not feel exaggerated. It feels insufficient.
the boards will still creak
the leaves will still die
the leaves will still die
