The day my life began, I was already seventeen-thousand, one-hundred and seventy days old. And about one hour. But what an hour. I wasn’t ready for her, but she was ready for me. She was brown, if brown could be its own shade of pastel. Built like bull wire and tenderness in equal measure, beneath a newborn exterior. Mine, and more than my redemption.
Today is her day. The eighth celebration of her life that we, the ones who are graced by her, remember her with. She is a normal eight-year-old girl. She loves dolls and hockey, mac and cheese and Brussel sprouts, Shel Silverstein, and Bob’s Burgers. She is loved, thank God, by her peers and her elders. And she, thank God, loves her peers and her elders just the same.
And today, because there is love in this world that would not have existed had she not entered it, I write this. For me. For her family. For her. Because one day, she will read this, as she has already read my poetry. And she will know that this is who she is to us.
She is the daughter of my daughter. She is the heart of my heart. And this day will forever be her birthday. The eighth so far. The remembrance day of when my life began.
© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday