Friday, April 20

Spring isn't passing by me this time. Each year I grow more aware of this season which before was nothing except the middle man to summer. But a magnolia tree across the street allows me --very briefly-- to swoon and sigh over pink blossoms... although there hasn't been any rain around this parts, life is blooming.

I held my sister's newborn baby girl just a few days ago. She was warm with new blood, a fresh full bed of black hair and the quiet peace of the undiscovered. She is a doll my hands were deadly afraid to touch.

My other niece and nephews were born in Venezuela, and seeing them only through photographs, however majestic, just reminded me I was not a part of the big moment: conquering my fear to hold them in arms too big and clumsy and say hello for the first time ever.

Driving to the hospital, I thought about my first words to baby Sophie. What should I say to her? "Hello. Welcome. I love you." Everything sounded so common there were no words worth saying. As I walked into the room and saw her tightly wrapped in a swaddling blanket like a Matryoshka doll, beaming light from her cheeks, I forgot my plan to say anything at all.

Rupande, the Indian warrior princess, was suddenly a mom and there she was, totally beautiful after the most treacherous work a woman could possibly do. More visitors arrived eager to greet this wee being and we gushed together. Yet nothing trumped the silence of everyone completely at ease looking at Sophie Rotu sleeping. Just like a brand new blossom on the tree across the street, there was nothing to do with her grace but stare.