Little Fires

I had never been so sure that I would do anything to be there for the rest of our lives, and also so unsure of how I’d do that. She was just so suddenly a part of everything.

A beat of silence. And then she begins to wail, harsh and keening. The unfairness of it all. To not decide when, or how, or perhaps to whom you’re born to.

Did she already know then? Tiny, brilliant, fiery human.

My father’s hands passed her, snuffling and raw, into my arms. Fear, and something like resolve, traveled up my body, elbows locking. I did not want to move an inch, except for to stare down as she blinked slowly up. I gazed at the pinpricks of blush spreading between her cheeks, across the mat of dark hair, her face contorted, and then, at once, peaceful. So many firsts in just a few moments.

I had never been so sure that I would do anything to be there for the rest of our lives, and also so unsure of how I’d do that. She was just so suddenly a part of everything, in her fragile and curious form. And decidedly of the sister that I barely knew. Motherhood confounded me, and I didn’t know if my sister could do it. But Isabella was here, readiness or not. I pressed my niece into the nape of my neck, where she began to coo, looking out the window towards the edge of the Rogue valley, we watched the beginnings of fireworks. Little fires in the dark.