"Would you like to cut the umbilical, Mr. Thill?"
"Sure, I guess so."
The doctor, a few years older than me, a little condescending--or maybe I'm just insecure--holds the thick umbilical cord in his hands, spreads it out in front of me like a guy rolling pasta, offers a span of about 5 inches. He nods with his chin to a pair or scissors tucked into the breast pocket of his Zubaz-colored smock.
"Take the scissor."
I do.
"Got it," I say, levering the blades back and forth, for practice. They sound sharp. The cord is thick and tri-colored, blue and brown and bloody, glistening mucous. I aim the scissor at the cord and something in my bowels catches, a flush of adrenaline pulses.
"Not sure I want to be responsible for this," I say, lightly, nodding back and forth between my wife and our still-tethered son.
The doctor indicates a bit of impatience and holds out the cord.
"There you go--go ahead and cut it."
"Sorry, Son," I say as I surround the cord with the blades. "Sorry to disconnect you from the best care you'll ever get." Cutting the cord feels like meat. Like steak. The scissors make a "Shhhhht" sound as they separate my new son from my new wife.
"Nice work," the doctor says, and gives me a wink. Like I'm some kid just learning to fly a kite.
"Screw you," I say, under my breath and my wife hears, rolls her eyes.Then she closes them, exhausted. Happy.
"Your the one who did the 'Nice Work'," I tell her. The feeling in my chest for her is like heavy, wet clay. My knees are suddenly weak and my eyes start to water. "You're amazing," I tell her, and she grabs for my hand, and finding it, squeezes and drifts off to sleep. Ten seconds later she snores like a sailor.
I put my head in my hands and cry like a child.
Across the room, my new son, freshly separated from what had been his world, lies silent and peaceful as a leaf on a tree, waiting and innocent of wind, rain or darkness.

-par