I have a picture of her tucked into the clear driver’s license window of my wallet.
Taken with my cell phone by her dad, hovering over us, exhausted and elated that she was finally here, some 50 hours after she decided it was time. It was minutes after they had sewn me up, each end of the calculated gash finished for some inexplicable reason with a glass bead that a midwife would later snip off to pull the suture through my skin with the flourish of a magician’s final act.
It’s the first one we put out into the world. I remember the moment like it was five minutes ago. Staring at the face of perfection, wondering how on earth I could have had a hand in creating something so utterly beautiful to look at. Are you sure she’s mine? Because she’s so stunning, I’m a little shocked. Laughing at the oversized snowsuit and mittens her father and a delivery nurse had dressed her in. I understood at once, finally, why I was put here. Her existence explained my own. Crystal clear and all mine - my purpose, all nine pounds and three ounces of her. My God, those cheeks. I’ve birthed a cherub.
The first few times that someone from behind a counter saw it as I pulled out money to pay for groceries or a grande bold, or let’s face it, a bottle of wine - I just smiled silently and handed over the cash. “Aw, bless!” or “What an angel!” And I would think, yes, in fact, you’re more right than you’ll ever know. An angel. Please don’t ask me how old she is. All I can tell you is how old she is supposed to be.
The pessimist in me says I should just take it out, to avoid the inevitable awkward conversation. Strangers don’t want to hear that she’s not here, or why. And I don’t want to force someone into averting their gaze, uncomfortable and mumbling they’re sorry. They’re just being friendly, exchanging common pleasantries that help pass the day. But I like looking at it. I have to look at it. So for now it stays, and I keep missing our angel.
