Today, I’m reflecting on my daughters original birth day many years ago.
I came across the writing prompt “I remember…” and the memories came.
I remember focusing on the circle of light in the ceiling of the hospital room until finally, I felt a deep pressure and a tug.
I remember my baby in the arms of a nurse, a blur as she left my sight. An exhausted breath exhaled from my entire body, replaced by my tired smile.
I remember the gasps from my doctor. Seconds later another gasp from someone behind me.
I remember freezing in time.
“Oh my,” the doctor said and broke into laughter. A female voice giggled.
“What, what?!”
And then a chorus of “oohs” and “awws.”
Lowered into my arms was a healthy looking infant, rosy-cheeked, with a halo of just washed inky black hair standing on end. I couldn’t help tearing up and laughing at the same time.
Large eyes blinked, pink bow lips puckered.
I remember the moist baby scent of warmth; murmuring the words what a marvelous miracle.
For months her full head of hair wowwed whoever saw her. They asked if they could touch her soft mane, fanned around her head like a fuzzy mohair hat.
Twenty-nine years later, my daughter’s hair is waist length, thick and beautiful. Today’s its emerald green.
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