I put my hand into the pocket of the blue gingham dress that
I’m about to iron, so that she can look tidy for at least five minutes, until
that magic happens and I turn around and suddenly she is dirty and dishevelled
before the school bell even rings.
I pull out a handful of sand. I smile. Here is the evidence
of her secret life, the one that I – who carried, birthed and fed her with my
own body – have no part of and do not understand. The one that begins when she
races away from me across the yard, and ends when she greets me six hours later
with a hug and a model made from old tissue boxes and glitter.
And for a moment, though it is not like me, I feel sad. For
the time is coming when that secret life of hers will become darker and more
complex. When she will bring home not handfuls of nature, but secrets and
slights, triumphs and hurts, and I will not find them by putting a hand into a
pocket. Perhaps she will not share them with me at all. And all I can do is
pray to a god that I do not believe in that she will be able to navigate this
strange and wonderful world that is sometimes so difficult and so cruel, even –
and perhaps especially – for bold, brave girls like her.
I iron the dress. I whisper my prayers. I love her with my
whole heart.
