At 5:20am, lying in bed, listening to Fiona’s sleep movements for signs of waking, I heard a jet take off nearby. “That’s probably Anna,” I thought, on her flight back to Michigan. I focused on her aircraft in my mind, surrounded it with white light. Safe travels, my love, my firstborn daughter.
Anna spent her birthday weekend back east, with sisters, brothers-in-law, parents, and especially her niece Fiona, a fellow firstborn daughter.
“Did you always love Anna the most because she was your firstborn?” asked Nellie over our celebratory brunch. A playful question, but I get it. I imagine her love for four-month-old Fiona is so all-powerful, all-consuming, boundless; it’s unimaginable that anyone could match it. I remember that worry when I was contemplating a second pregnancy.
They say the uterus has extraordinary powers of expansion, but the heart exceeds it (the figurative one). You think there couldn’t possibly be room for more love in there, but each child finds its chamber in the infinite love chambers of the heart. Love’s lifespan is unlimited too, whether your firstborn is just learning to roll over or she’s 33, carried into the sky at 5 in the morning, headed away home.
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 196: 199 words, TOTAL = 32,148; 27,852 remaining
Robin Clifford Wood is an award-winning author, poet, and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her children, grandchildren, and granddogs.