I wrote this a little while ago: eight months ago, to be exact. Eight months plus ten months plus whatever is to come: these words hold true. Love you, love you, I love you, little girl.
Ten months to the outside world, and fierce as ever. She's rad. A spitfire, a wonderful human, so full of love and curiosity for everyone she meets. She looks openly, stares unabashedly, and watches the world make waves before her. She is joy and love in sweetest human form.
I have not written much since her birth. Admittedly, I've written very little. This surprises Past Me. Even I assumed her arrival would send me to the page. But in truth, it's sent me far away from it, and into life full tangible. I have not felt the need to reach for poetry because she is poetry; she is every word I've tried to write, and every word I've written. She is my heartbeat and my blood, my soul's now-known purpose; she is the freshest of pages, every time I see her. I have not written much on paper for you yet, my love, but I have written you on every surface of my heart.
love, mommy