One year later
I look at the girl, and she is mine. My daughter. There could be no other outcome. None that my brain will accept. She is a little miracle on two legs. An arrangement of atoms that takes my breath away. That pushes my buttons. That makes me a different person.
Monday will be the one-year anniversary of Lina Day. The sweaty pink bundle that was gently put into my arms on that day is now running around the house, putting on my jewelry, terrorizing the cats, and teaching me about who she is.
This world is hers. I am hers. And she is mine.
November 13th, 2006 at 18:56
happy anniversary, atomic mama and papa. I’m remembering your exhilaration of that day, today.
and lina, what was the world before you? we can’t remember.
love you,
auntie kerry