For a while she was connected, though she drew umbilical life through a compromised cord. I remember how I sat in a chair, week after week, hooked up to wires. I learned to watch the screen, tracing the little river of life flowing in, flowing out. How I prayed that the shriveling stream would sustain.
And it did, (praise be!), and her Daddy caught her on a December afternoon, all six pounds of her in one sweet surprise.
Her six pounds turned into six years—that perfect, forever number.
Six is big in another way.
She left today. All day. She went to the fair with her dear little friend and they watched pig races and rode coasters and ate maple “creamees” and she came home with a bag full of her day. A day spent without me.
The friendship is rich that takes her into another family for a day.
At first, I admit, I enjoy the quiet. I only realize how much she talks when there is a silent space.
Then I think about her. I wonder what she’s doing. I imagine her laughter, but I’m not there to hear it.
Maudlin, I know, but she’s the baby– the sweet prolonging of letting go.
The moon is high in the sky when I go in to steal a lingering look. She is sprawled, a foot dangling over the edge of her mattress. She is big, but somehow still so small.
I kneel down by her bed, my posture of humble thanks, so glad that our Father knew we needed just one more.