And we’re here.
I found myself staring at both of you this morning, as we brushed hair and washed cheeks. Over your heads I stared, eyes slightly damp, at the picture that has sat on the fridge since Rosalyn was a baby. In it, Vivian, you stare intently at 2 day old Rosalyn, curious like a dog, nose barely an inch away from Rosalyn’s red cheeks, her tightly wound reddened hands.
I remember that day. I remember it was too hot for the heavy sleeper we put you in Rosalyn, the cute one already packed away for nostalgia. I laid a homemade blanket on the kitchen floor as I gently laid you down, Vivian circling and wanting to see. Her sister. Sisters, the two of you.
Two of you. All grown up. Your hair it tangles, and weaves itself. Vivian you yell and curse and scream until I hand over the hairbrush, ever so insistent on doing it yourself. Much the same as you did at 2. You both let me tie your hair back today, feeling distinctly grown up and old as I wrap the hair tie around the thick hair. 4 brown eyes stare intently, my daughters, flesh of my flesh, and I feel a slight sigh flutter out of my belly.
It’s like I’ve escaped something, or exceeded a goal or just…crossed a line. Suddenly you both feel and seem so awfully grown up and old, that is until Rosalyn starts rattling on about Ren and Stimy or Vivian, you start telling me it’s ok to kill ants because no one likes them anyway. While you’re both silent, you seem ageless. Short, but simply without time. Yet then I feel so old, as minutes and hours march by me in your eyes, and I feel the wind change.
The wind carries your womanhood on it, your growth, the days ahead. Lunches, pencils broken, hearts and flowers. Futures.
But for now ladies, I’m good with both of you out of the house each day.