Happy 24th Birthday, Sophie! Happy International Women's Day!
How do I write about this day? Fifteen years of staring into the dark pools of her eyes, wondering what she is thinking or what she sees or whether she knows anything or everything. Tracing the thin scar that lies one inch above her right eyebrow, the mark of a fall, long ago when the pool of blood under her head made me draw in my breath and out to her. Tracing the thin ridge of her nose, the faint freckles, the delicate flutter of her breath. The full beautiful lips that form no words but curve, gently, rarely, in a smile. The soft, curly hair and tiny rounded shoulders, the downy hair on the nape of her neck, the straight back and gentle, graceful body. Her hands are like birds, long slender fingers untouched by labor or use, tapered, they make notes in the air, an ethereal musician. How do I write about this day when she is fifteen years old? I love birthdays, my own included, but especially those of my sweet children. For Sophie, the birthday is something different, something more ephemeral, something to be seized, to mark, to feel sorrow and gratitude.
Another year, another year, another year.