Letters to my Daughter: August 15, 2016

It’s warm outside, the kind of heat that envelops you, but it’s more comfortable than the artificial coolness inside the house. I feel you throughout the day and it’s hard to believe you’re a part of me. My breasts and stomach are swollen, I’ve bought loose fitting tops to accommodate you, I’ve donated several pairs of shoes to Goodwill and spend too much of my morning trying to make sense of what I’ve dreamt. Your fist pushes against my ribs and I press back with my fingertips below my sternum. I know about you, but I doubt you’re aware of me. Even so, we’re both left waiting to cultivate an awareness of each other that won’t be fully realized until both of us are exhausted and wet with amniotic fluid.

I bought a bird feeder shaped like a wooden bench and hung it in the backyard. Your father calls it a squirrel feeder. I watch it sway in the wind, anchored to a pole by white twine as small birds dance in and out of it. Will this be your first memory? Overly cautious squirrels screeching within plush branches as smaller, more delicate creatures eat in pairs, a breeze that brings no comfort, your plump skin a perpetual golden brown. I imagine you in my arms groaning in your sleep, hair soft as a kitten and smelling of sugared honey. Both of us overwhelmed and happy, afternoons will take on an endless quality and you’ll grow into yourself.

Everything will be more simple. My day will start and end with your smile and small feet limp beneath my arms as I hold you. I imagine taking you with me to my graduate level classes strapped to my chest. You’ll be my first critic and constant companion. A little friend I carry with me for other people to coo over as I finish my work and plan how one day you will go to school and start a life for yourself with a good foundation I’ve provided for you. Life will be both slow and fast, sweet and expansive, and your growth will sustain me through it all.