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To my daughter on the twenty-fifth day
The Dime
wilowisp
Time continues its stealthy march, and I don't steal enough of it for you, my love.  I haven't captured the moments, the gasps of breath that define who we are as a family in these early days.  I don't have a trove of treasures for you to sit a top in twenty years, eyes alight with all that could be remembered.  The noisy way you sleep, the uncontrolled snarl of your upper lip, the way your eyes open bright when in the shadow.  These are things that sit on the surface now, and I can't imagine a time when I will forget them.  But years of sedimentary memory will build, and I may recall that you had a curious gaze but not the exquisite detail of when you stopped looking and started seeing.

So I must push myself to record the wonder that is you.  I must take pictures and rehearse stories and write, write, write the glory that is being your parent.  Yet even now, do I romanticize it to the point where it becomes unbelievable, how much your Papa and I are entranced by you?  Do I color a past that is still the present, even though the goal is to capture it for you?  And for myself.

You were born in a warm October, when the leaves took forever to fall.  You were with us twenty minutes after birth, and we've never let you go.  Your sleep is far from slient, and it is a comfort to us when we listen for you from across our bedroom.  Your burps are full, robust.  We think your eyes will be brown, once the otherworldy shimmer of newborn leaves them.  You have long fingers, a fold on the top of your right ear and a point at the top of your left.  You hate a wet diaper and love time on your tummy.

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