Dear Arlandria,
Recently you turned five months old. Five months since I first saw you and heard your first cry. Five months since you were a grumpy lump in a hospital baby bed. Five months since I held you for the first time on my chest and let you sleep with short little breaths.
This month you've begun to jump, yes, even when your legs aren't on the ground. You stretch and explore with your hands. You've begun to teleport direction and location when we leave the room for a minute or two. You are in love with Gatsby and Donut. We took our first trip to Independence and you love your Aunt Brigette and Grandma Ramsey and all of your cousins. You went to church for the first time and slept the whole way through (she might be a daddy's girl).
You stopped sleeping in your cradle a while ago, but now you've stopped sleeping in your bassinet too. Now you sleep in Pack n' Plays. You sleep in Dock-a-Tots. The little girl that sunk in her cradle is now in the ninetieth percentile of height for her age. Like Dylan croned fifty years ago, the times they are a' changing.
Time is a concept that has filled me with both joy and fright on multiple occasions. It's been three years since I graduated from my Master's program in May. My life has changed so much since then, not least of all because between then and now I married Mom and we had You.
In a short amount of time, you are going to begin crawling. You are going to find everything we failed to baby-proof first. You're probably going to smash a finger or two. We are going to come running from other rooms to your crying wails as you realize that exploration isn't always as safe as bed, or the play mat, or our arms.
In a longer amount of time, you are going to start walking. Oh my god how the world will not be ready when our giant of a little girl begins running. And when she begins to speak? Hold still dear mountains, for you shall rumble.
Some days I can't believe I'm twenty-six years old. I can't believe my father is forty-six years old. I can't believe my Sister is going to be thirty-one years old. Grandma Ramsey turns fifty. The people who have been at the center of my life are so old, and how little you know of their journey. Have I got stories for you. Stories of times long past, when I was as small as you, as small as you will soon be.
Speaking of time, it's about time Grandpa D got married. And he took just long enough that you got to be there. I wonder what you will think when you look back on these photos. Indeed, I wonder what the photographic obsession of our generation will look like to yours, where smartphones, computers are all common place. Where the imagination is only limited by the amount of gigabytes you can download in a second. The world I was born in is completely different, and I wonder if your children - should you choose to have any - will understand the world you were born into any better than you will of mine.
When I chose to be a writer it was because I sensed something beyond time. As you grow, I want to know that I put something in that place for you. A way to reach the way Dad felt about something before his hair turned mostly gray, before his face became wrinkled, before he developed whatever it is that's going to eventually make its way to the medical chart with the time of expiration on it.
In thinking of you, my child, it seems I must always contemplate mortality. And here I am with most of my life still ahead of me, and all of your life ahead of you.
That is to say, don't get too too caught in the contemplation of time. Through Art we get to share the world with the spirits of the dead. Through Life we get to share the world with the spirits of the living. Whether you pray to God or good food, pray to Time. Cherish Time. The way we've cherished our time so far. With each other. With the planet. With you.
In time you're going to read these letters we've written. It is precisely why we write them. I can't imagine which parts you will love, which ones will be embarrassing. I can't imagine the depths and complexities of the way you will feel. Just the other day you belly laughed at Gatsby. And tomorrow you may cry at the sunlight. Only time will tell. But here it is, baby girl. A little piece of immortality. A little piece beyond time. A little place where Mom and I will always be there to speak to your bones, and your heart.
With Love,
Dad
