Dear Chloe, part II

When we arrived at your house we went back to your parent's bedroom where you were born. Your Mother and Father were stretched out on the big bed and your Mom was holding you. You were wrapped up in a soft blanket with a little cap on your head, something your Mother knitted for you when she first found out you were alive inside of her. Your face was relaxed, your eyes closed. All my attention went to your Mother for a few seconds as I confirmed that she was safe. I bent my head close to hers, cheek to cheek hugging her, and kissed her, and tried to say some words which fit the moment. The words were thin and pale against the backdrop of what had just taken place, but I think she knew what was in my heart: admiration, respect, profound gratitude, and a strange newborn camaraderie, for we were both walking the votive path of parenting, both humbled before the miracle she held in her arms.

Then I studied you, Chloe; I leaned over you and looked into your face and spoke to you, and you moved a little at the sound of my voice, and murmured some small sounds, and I said some things, little promises and plans for mischief and learning, the only one of which worth recalling being this: I will teach you where to find the smallest flowers, the minute first flowers of the springtime every year, hidden away like little treasures in the lawns and fields, as I used to teach your Mom and your Aunt Katie when they were my little girls.