And they brought her to me and placed her in my arms. All scrubbed clean with ink stain still on her tiny wrinkled feet.
I remember it clearly. I etched it in. Determined. Still hurting from the memory of not holding my first born for almost twenty-four hours after she was born. Still scarred from not seeing her brand new red and creased skin, the smell of minutes old.
Not this time, I remember thinking. This moment is not going to be taken from me.
This time I stared - long. It was wee morning hours and everyone gone. A hospital quiet. An exhausted husband sleeping in chair too small.
She was wide awake. Big dark eyes. A face as round as a saucer. I said that out loud. Gregg, her face is perfectly round, just like a little saucer. He slept on.
Her skin was dry from fetaling in the womb two weeks too long.
Her hair was long and black.
She was daughter, sister, granddaughter.
But most of all she was mine. Arms stretching unfolding love right before my eyes.
So much to so many. A gift. Unwrapped nineteen years and ten hours and fifteen minutes ago.
And why is it that birthdays make us question time? Do they know what they steal? How little turns to big and young to older.
Can I accept what they offer?
Can I accept what they offer?
And the unwrapping never gives to an end.
And the minutes tick. Now nineteen years and ten hours and twenty minutes ago.
And I remember to thank.
