I went along on the trip to the hospital only because I knew there might be bad news; expected just to stay in the waiting room, brought a thick novel to keep me occupied. Then, they let both of us into the radiologist's examining room, where I sat with eyes glued to the monitor looming above the workstation.
Then, there you were - in fuzzy, monochromatic cross-section, but suddenly, magically, real and complete. I looked in wonder at your tiny beating heart, the lobes of your brain... and a little nose that your mother immediately attributed to her side of the family. You lay on your back, and kicked your little legs... and then one hand came up, as if to wave, and made our heats jump.
Some day near mid-summer, when this waiting winter is far behind us, I'm hoping to see you again, no longer ultrasonic echoes relayed in digital monochrome, but warm and noisy and pink, as you lie for the first time in your mother's arms.