My hands were cold all the way to the hospital and I was afraid that I wouldn’t get my epidural. I’ve never been good with discomfort, let alone pain. I was hurriedly wheeled to my room. It was spare, with only a small vase of bluets by the window. The contractions came in waves now, and when a hard one came, I tried to think of something to take away the pain.

When I was small, we’d called those little blue flowers Forget-Me-Nots. They grew on a mountainside a mile or two away from my house. There were no girls my age, so I’d played with my brother and his friends. They treated me as though I were weak and fragile, and compared to them, I suppose I was. But I could run fast, and my legs were strong from running.

One sunny day we’d decided to race up and down the mountain on our bikes. I’d pumped my legs until they shook. My heart raced and my throat burned. At the top, the boys slowed. It was steep and rocky. It would not be a good idea to race down.

But I didn’t care. I pedaled hard down the mountain, dodging logs and rocks. The wind whipped my blowing hair out of my eyes. I was flying. I was going too fast to see what was ahead. This was dangerous.

Then, abruptly, I was on my back staring at the open sky with a taste of rust in my mouth. I’d flipped over the handlebars. I was bleeding. All around me were fields and fields of little blue Forget-Me-Nots.

I smiled at the memory of it. Another hard contraction. The nurse looked at me evenly. There would be no epidural, I’d been too late. The tiny bluets were bright in the window.

And then suddenly I was holding him. He was perfect, with a lusty cry and strong little lungs.

I will never worry about you, little one. The world can be perilous, but you are strong.

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Amy Dematt