Most people’s children arrive amid the chaos of blood and contractions and bleeping
monitors. Mine came to me quiet and still on the school bus; wrapped in the blue and white gingham of a summer dress.
I remember the sound of the garden gate. Footsteps crunching gravel, the slamming open of a heavy door followed by a long swoosh as it swung shut. Some hurried whispers, a long hesitation, and the pounding of blood in my ears.
Suddenly there she was. A real live girl stood right in front of me: tiny and disheveled and solemn. Staring intently up at my face; stripping me down piece by piece, layer by layer. No words were spoken; time stood still, and the world stopped turning as we were drawn deeper and deeper into each other’s eyes.
And then she disappeared.
Bit by bit all the colours, the texture, and the hubbub of the room returned.
Minutes later, our silent pledge was sealed as I felt a small, sticky hand slide into mine and hold fast for the very first time.
I’ve linked this post up with “Magic Moments” over at The Oliver’s Madhouse.