Who I Love

In the way of the world my daughter was born all pink and rosy, skin softer than down. She was placed in my arms and promptly picked up. They'd forgotten I'd had a caesarean birth. Birth pangs are forgotten or we were told diffused. For me that particular legend is only a myth. I remember the most exquisite angel wrapped in proper bundling. The face round and perfect haloed by dark curly locks. She cradled in my arms and rested snugly on my breast and my nurse gleamed with pride. As I learned how to nurse, we became more than we are when giving life the impetus of life to life drives with exquisite force. My caesarean blossomed, a rose with no obvious thorn, my child of promise, a gift, a companion, a force of her own. Just a part of my world as my hand, my heart, my life’s blood, I’m writing this for her.