Tied my hair in ribbons and cut off two strands on each side, it felt like roots under a cement block, protruding, askew and mildly inconvenient.
I put the strands against your growing waves, and the shade is one I cannot describe. Your hair is all sorts of shades of blond, brown and red. When you were born it was black, much like mine, but as the weather warms, so do you.
I used to tell your father there was a single red strand on your left temple, a few days after my body was no longer your home. He would say that your hair was pitch black, but the other day, with much excitement in his voice and a tiny squeal, he found the strand that you’ve had since birth.
Three small spikes have made their arrival, like small thorns during nursing, we sometimes lock eyes and I tell you that it doesn’t feel good when you bite with the bit of tooth that has made it out your gums. I’m not sure you get the concept of pain yet, beyond hunger and exhaustion tears, what an honor.
At times it feels like I fall in love with your dad all over again, and it’s inevitably because of you. He plays games with you and you laugh louder than ever before, although non-verbal, your connection and synchronicity is undeniable. I feel softer, safer, content and dare I say, optimistic?
I know that if God took me, you would be safe with him. At times I reflect on my previous marriage and feel enlightenment for never having a baby with my former spouse, if I did, I’m not sure my soul would know rest.
