Two years ago, I was in my car driving to a hospital to be there for the birth of a precious little creature. And the way time passes, it just so happens that two years later, Little Miss A turns two. Little Miss A, it has been a long time since I have seen you. We live in different states now. I miss you. I miss your sister and I miss your mums very much.
I’m re-publishing a piece I wrote for you, Little Miss A. It remains one of my favourite pieces ever, because it reminds me of how totally privileged I felt to be there, under the crescent moon, with your heart beating strongly as a part of the universe.
Although I don’t know it, there is a crescent moon in the sky.
You were born on the day of a night of the crescent moon.
When I arrived at the hospital, your sister met my eyes and smiled. Our eyes became mirrors of excitement and confusion, with neither of us sure of what was happening but both knowing it was something big. Your sister and I touched hands, and she wriggled in her wheelchair, arching her perfect three-year-old neck so that she could follow me, with her eyes, to where I would sit.
Your sister and I hid our nerves and our tears by looking at magazines. I laughed when she paid too much attention to a male underwear model, but really I was waiting to hear if you had been born.
Your mum is one of my best friends, you see. She’d asked me to be in the hospital for the day you arrived. You were in a hurry, though, and dates were brought forward, then times, until finally, by the time I made it, you were already well and truly on the way.
Behind a closed door, they were setting you free from the confines of your protective cocoon.
But here with me, on the other side of the door, was your sister.
Your big sister.
She was in her chair, surrounded as always by people who love her. To love her is to join her family, and to join her family is to be loved.
And you were going to join this family.
Your sister and I read the names on the walls, and looked at pictures. I paced, and waited.
I was excited about meeting you, yes – but more than that, I wanted to see your mum.
The afternoon was coming to a close by the time you arrived. You were carried out. You were held as if you were as fragile as a hand grenade. You were presented with awe and delight and shock.
We made all the same noises at the same time.
Even your sister.
You were passed from heart to heart, and tears were fought and poured in equal measure. You were greeted and snuggled and talked to, your photo taken with every passing second as you found your place in this life.
Ten fingers, ten toes. Perfect eyes, perfect hair, perfect lungs. And immediately, naturally, accepted into a perfect family.
A perfect family, who knows and embraces imperfection as perfection.
You are alive. You are a life.
In this moment, in this heartbeat, in this world – that is enough.
You were perfect.
And you are perfect.
And to know you is to love you.