The Miracle of Trinity

She hummed a quiet melody to the child in her arms. Its tiny, gurgling lips were dwarfed by puffy cheeks, with the softest warmest skin and those inquisitive eyes!
“He’s perfect,” she said.
The parents beamed, their pride glowing brighter than the sunlight in the hospital windows. “We know, it’s like, how would we make something so wonderful?…”
Her fingers stroked the top of his head, velvet soft from his new hair. He seemed tired in her arms, but content. They looked at each other with understanding. She could sense it in him, in his little brain and his little eyes, and his little fingers wrapped around hers. This meant something.
“He’s going to grow up beautifully.”


The lamp-lit walls of the nursery perfectly matched the knit sock in her hand, and she closed the door behind her with a deep, ready breath. It was so quiet, just the buzz of the mobile sending pastel animal shapes gamboling across the walls. She followed the path of a powder blue elephant, a pink tiger, a silly yellow monkey as they rippled over the picture frames on the wall, the glass underneath hungering for photos to display.
I was all yellows in here, the color of his hair, the color of the sunlight when they met.
“Trinity,” she said aloud, rubbing the sock between her fingers. He would complete them, the unity of God and herself. He was a child of miracle. She placed Trinity’s sock in the center of the cradle, creasing the tightly-tucked sheets with a promise of use.

She hummed a quiet melody to the empty, immaculate crib.