I brought her home from the hospital to a trinket box house at the end of a dusty dirt road. Space was a luxury; I had to turn sideways and squeeze past her crib to crawl into bed. Her cord hadn’t even fallen off when I found myself crying postpartum-y tears because there was this stack of diapers and nursing pads and quite suddenly it hit me–the starting over again. There was a fault line. Her being my second, I knew that sleepless nights and scary fevers and impossible potty-training snaked up a windy mountain peak. But then the soft of her head and the chub of her fingers soothed like the sweetest whispered promise–the promise of a lifetime to work it all out.
but when you look up there is a red Jeep in the driveway and off it goes with her inside. Not just inside but at the wheel of a life all her own.
In the most rare and fleeting moments there comes a flicker of something that doesn’t have a name and it shines in her eyes and for a second it tricks me into thinking that it’ll never pass. It tricks me like it did when first she curled against me from the outside and I was overwhelmed by the days stacked before me. It sings this siren song of unending days and moments that go on forever.
For a second I let myself believe even though I know better.
Someday closes in like a threat. Someday when all of the tomorrows I thought I still had have suddenly become a yesterday. Someday when she’ll wander around a corner and the road will stretch out further than she can see. Someday when she’ll take that first step and then the next one will come easier and the next one easier still. Someday when all on her own she’ll stock a fridge and pay the rent and decide when to call it a night. Someday when she’ll come home with a speck of a sparkle on her finger and she’ll tell me he’s the one. Someday when she’ll feel a curious could-it-be flutter and then an undeniable kick and bursting with hope she’ll choose a name.