Nativity, by Faith Elizabeth Hough

“My love.”
The girl whispered the words to her newborn baby. She watched his eyelids flutter and his chest fill with its first breath of air.
“My joy.”
She marveled at his perfection. Ten fingers. Ten toes. Those eyes were so beautiful, dark blue as the sky above them.
“My hope.”
He grasped her finger with his fist, holding tight. And he looked at her, met her gaze and held it, unblinking.
“My son.”
How wonderful to feel his tiny mouth against her breast. He faltered, his body weak still, his neck so small and his head heavy. She pulled him close, cradled his head in the crook of her arm, guided his lips until she heard the soft suckling.
“My Savior.”
What pain would those tiny hands endure? What weight would crush those smooth shoulders? He was so little, so helpless. In his sleep his eyebrows drew together; what painful prophecy played in his dreams? She stroked his cheek; at once a smile parted his lips, and a strain of music burst through the air. The voices of angels and men blended and harmonized, new notes springing from the others as their songs met. Around the baby, the air shone. Above his head, a star pierced the night's darkness.
“My God.”