Lyla

Your big, brown eyes peer up at me. Can they see the anxiety in my smile?
         The inadequacies and fear at the corners of my lips, or does my unprecedented joy mask them?
Under my fingertips your cheek is soft, warmed by the same blood that warms mine,
          that courses through our veins, and a heart that has never before been so full of love, or worry, or pride.

I know your father must be there somewhere, but your tiny face reflects my own features back at me like a mirror.
         It is the first time I have ever loved them.
I think it must be because all of this time they were never meant for me. They always belonged to you.

As I take them in, minutes pass— hours, days, maybe— and with every tick of the clock I find an appreciation blossoming in my chest for their parentage. Such a gift I’ve never been given.
         A love for this face because we share it, a love for this body because it created something so perfect and precious as you. No one warned me that
         when I made space in my heart for a daughter that I’d make some for myself too.

Seven pounds and six ounces never felt so solid or so fragile. The muscles in my arms ache from holding you so close,
         And from the thought of putting you down.
I had grown used to the weight of you, safe and sound in my body even as I slept.
         How now will I protect you, tucked away in my dreams?

But there is a particular glint in your eye, a familiar one I have seen in my own,
         Telling me not to fret.
The sure grip of your fingers around one of mine speaks the other words that you cannot, the ones humming between us
          in that sacred place within souls shared, reserved for the bond of a mother and child. The only ones I need to know to finally, finally rest my weary eyes.

That this is only the beginning of our journey, you and I,
         And that you are here to stay.



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