You're just like an angel. You're skin makes me cry.
One week from today she will be one-half of a year. Six-months of a life. And I will wake up to her smiling, her fingers in my mouth, unaware of the changes that occurred in the night while we were all sleeping, a new strand of light in the window. Like any other day, she'll suppose.
Unaware of my arms tightening around her or my words as I whisper to her father that I must hold on to her for dear life. Memorize the tiny pearls she wears as buttons before they fall off her blouses in the wash, lost at sea with my old socks and drowned lighters.
I cleaned out her drawers today. Plucked dresses from their sleeves and onesies from their stains and formerly white socks I accidentally dyed purple. And she watched me from the bed, her feet in her hands, gurgling with her tide pool sounds.
"This is what I brought you home in the hospital wearing," I said. "And this is what you wore the day my mother and I dressed you up and took pictures" and "On Christmas you fell asleep in my arms wearing this as we all sang songs with paper crowns on our heads and held up our glasses and said Cheers! To a beautiful new life at the table and that life, little Fable was you."
And then I promised* her I wouldn't cry as I folded her little clothes in little piles and put them away in little plastic bags.
Moments later I was licking my fingers, wiping clean the mascara clumps from her gingersnap hair.
*I guess I lied.