Ten Perfect Minutes by Jessica M. Hernandez

The table was long, cold, and perfectly shaped. My mom laid there perfectly still. She didn't feel the pain of the long perfect blade, slicing into her small white stomach in a perfect line. I cautiously stood behind the perfect looking doctors in their perfectly comfy scrubs, perfectly green and clean. I saw the perfect scarlet blood soaking up into the perfect white cloth. My heart began to thump so perfectly hard. I looked in a daze at the perfectly squeaky clean room. I didn't know what my mom and I were getting into. The small, perfect male doctor reached into the perfect hole in my mom's stomach. He clenched onto a small perfect child. He cautiously pulled out a perfect baby girl. My heart stopped as perfect tears of joy, flowed down my face. Her perfect little cries rang through my ears like a shotgun. Her perfect little toes curled up as her perfect frog legs bounced up to her tummy since she was perfectly breech. Her perfect black eyes stared at me. In just ten perfect minutes, I had witnessed the birth of a perfect new life, come into an unperfect new world.