My sweet Arlandria,
It is now midnight, which means seven hundred and thirty days ago I heard you cry for the first time. Piercing and loud, I gasped when I first heard your tiny voice. I looked up at your dad, because he was able to see you over the surgery curtain. I saw the look of awe in his eyes when he heard you cry. He was as mystified as I was, for your cry filled the sterile corners of the tiny operating room. Long and loud, it demanded to be known.
Looking back now, I realize that cry was the first spark of the wildfire that is your life.
Tonight I heard that same cry as you woke up from a nightmare. This time that cry was also paired with a shout of "Mommy," which made me immediately run to you. You've been having nightmares lately. This is something that I realize comes with this age in life, but it doesn't make it any less painful. So I went to you, like I always do, and cuddled you close. I gave you your doll that you had lost in the dark, and we laid together as our breathing slowly started to intertwine into a nighttime melody. It made me wish I could take all your exhales and store them up so tightly, so that maybe I could capture your babyhood for just a little longer.
