Dear little Fiona, today you left the halls of the baby ward for home. Portland, Maine has plunged into frigid, January-like temperatures, but the sun was dazzlingly bright on the ocean waters outside Mercy Hospital. Your super organized parents were so ready to be home with you, but they were patiently meticulous about the car-seat fitting check at the nurses’ station before departure. “Do you know how to click it into the base?” the nurse asked. “We did a few practice rounds,” your dad said. Once downstairs, he drove the car up to the front door, while your mom waited with you in the lobby. The sleeves of your little elephant outfit flopped comically, well beyond your hands. Almost nothing fits you yet, but the pink hat knitted by Aunt Tessa is perfect.
Mom and Dad waited a bit for the car to warm up before whisking you outside – your first touch of sunshine! In no time at all, the three of you sat together on the sofa of your living room.
I love your little squeaks and bleats, your tiny yawn, the smell of your head, the silken skin of your face, the grip of your tiny fingers around mine. Pops and I will stick around and fix dinner before heading home, then your little family will start your new life. We’ll be two hours away, but rest assured, we plan to become familiar faces.
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 78: 236 words, TOTAL = 13,038; 46,962 remaining
Robin Clifford Wood is a writer and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband and dogs, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her grown children and their multi-species families.