Bonded

Bonded

My daughter gives flesh to the theory of a cyclical existence.

While I remember, fondly, the nesting days when her heartbeat matched my own, gazing into her gorgeous and demanding eyes, I sometimes wish to cycle back, to hold her like an infant for another quiet afternoon.

I studied her every skin cell, knew the sounds she made in her sleep, and rarely spent time in a room separate from her presence.

She was imperious and loud when displeased, content as a cat when in our arms, always Awake, and Alive,

                             and Watching.

And now,

Now that she’s a running and jumping and book-reading little girl, you would think that my baby would be lost and I would be so sad...
                                                So wistful. My arms so empty and wanting another.

But it turns out that we’ve merely taken a turn around the great circle – a first of many, I hope.

Because my daughter studies me. She knows everything about me. She rarely spends time in a room separate from my presence.

She will tuck my hair behind my ear and put her arm around my neck. She will declare her love for me when we are walking through the ferry terminal or driving to the grocery store. Without thinking, or planning, she leaves me feeling sugar-glazed in affection and devotion.

What a relief, and a thrill, that I will never outgrow being a mommy

                  and she will never outgrow being mine.