She Lays
October 6, 2010
She lays. In the crib, the hospital-mandated plastic wall see through tall unnatural crib, perfectly pink and new with no hair and a powerful set of lungs.
She lays. In my arms, for the first time, this small creature, so weak in her new body, but with such a grip on me that she is so strong, so strong.
She lays. On her stomach, on the pale tan carpet of the living room, pulling herself forward towards some toy- I don’t know what it looks like, because all I can see is her, so strong, pulling herself, pulling.
She lays. A smile across her perfect, round face. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and the sweetest plump cheeks. Little angel child, no wings, but the cheeks are just so round.
She lays. Laughter in the air around her. Walking now, a big girl now, in big girl underwear, asking big little girl questions. Why is the sky blue? Why does the princess always marry the prince and not a different prince? She wanted to marry that prince, Arriana. Oh. Well why?
She lays. Her feet across the grass, running toward me, leaping upward, totally unbound by gravity for the briefest, briefest, best moment. Summertime means we fly kites and play hide-and-go-seek in the backyard.
She lays. The big fat bright neon headache yellow crayola marker against the sheet of white paper. The sun. You can’t draw a picture without a sun, she says, unless it is a rainy day. Plop, the marker goes, in the right-hand corner of five different sheets of paper.
She lays. Her head in my lap, because there is a movie on, and it is dark outside, and her five and a half year old self is tired, so tired, but not when I remind her that I could make popcorn, and then she is awake, and is asking to pour the kernels in, and yes, you can, Arriana, and she lays the smile across her face once again, and lays a smile against my own, and the popcorn pops.
She lays. Across the couch, eyes drifting to a midnight close, and she looks at me and raises her still so small but still so strong arms for me to put her to bed. Walking up the stairs, she clings to me as only a small child can cling to her family. It’s a language, it means I love you, even though I’m little, I love you.
She lays. Little pink bed, little pink sheets, little pink blankets, little pink pillows. A strong grip on a plump, stuffed dog.
She lays a tiny goodnight kiss on my cheek, and laughs.
Goodnight, Arriana.
