chicating

way she arrived, but, though she was slightly smaller than average that was emphatically not to be.(Although my parents’ insistence that my fighting through to live made me miraculous made me never believe in miracles. Even as a partial instrument.) I wished I could really believe in destiny instead of acting as if I did—although even I couldn’t fault my own commitment to an ideal after this. I could see the best of myself in her rosy cheeks and the long fingers on her tiny hands. For a moment, even through the pain and fatigue that were my first sensations and impressions I felt sorry that I couldn’t be Mom going home to a devoted partner who’d cook us dinner and rub my feet. It was better this way. Hope needed somebody who could handle, and afford, all that babies needed, and though the burst of attention brought a few more assignments to my door, it would not have been enough
She had brown eyes, which only people buried deep in my family history had.(was that why? Or was that part of what she got from the star in the East?) At least, I could see her and get photos and things like that, though I could imagine a time, as with some of my other attendants where some great opportunity(hopefully not a tragedy) iimited our contact. Maybe I’d get to see her wear a first day of school outfit I picked.