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Have I ever told you about my first breath? It was an adorable little hack, more of a sibilant cough really, with an expiration reminiscent of the Santa Ana winds on a warm sun-kissed California afternoon.
But why talk about it when we could be discussing breath number two. Now that was an expulsion for the ages. It began unassuming enough with a fricative that reminded one of Jean Pierre Rampal on the flute except, precocious as I was, I added a long lingering spirant that left the night nurse speechless and my father screaming and smashing the video camera on the stainless steel gurney because his Leica rangefinder with its opaque lens cap failed to record the historic event.
But wait! Say no more. Because we should really be reminiscing about breath number three. Now that was a breath that would make a Pavarotti proud. A natural tenor, the lightness and crispness of my timbre showed off a sonorous elegance of phrasing and articulation — my “detache” is the term the knowledgeable obstetrician used — clearly demonstrated a rich palette of subtle tone color and control from forte to pianissimo. We can’t wait for him to grow up and sing Tonio in Donizetti’s, “La Fille Du Regiment” was, no doubt, the ubiquitous thought shared throughout the hospital that day.
Now don’t believe what they tell you about breath number four. I was there. I know. I blew it. It was a ululating roar, a violent squall, an atomic eruption accompanied by a piteous wail heard three towns over. But what can you expect after being untimely ripped and realizing what I was in for — parents who could go on PBS and raise the consciousness of the entire free world, but could not stay home long enough to raise a hamster. I was one of those old souls who could see ahead. The failed attempts to play professional softball. The ex-wife who devoted her adult life to ensuring I pay and pay and pay for a septic system that never stopped overflowing.
Ah, but why go there when I could be inhaling the sweet succulent breeze that was breath number five. Like a warm Sirocco from the Mediterranean, or the aroma of a freshly grilled rib-eye, it wafted through the nursery and caused all the other infant’s eyes to pop open, understanding that someone special had arrived, someone who would soon lead them crawling towards Bethlehem, rattle in hand, waiting to be reborn.
Ah, I see you’re asleep, emitting your own soft sibilants which are fluttering your long dark eyelashes ever so slightly on a zephyr of air. Tis a pity. Because everything before was just a prelude to my bravura performance.
Breath number six.