I don’t believe that image is a lie.
In spite of me, not because of me, my daughter is a smiling, happy baby. Her zest for life is palpable. Strangers feel it from many feet away. They are pulled in by her energy. They are uplifted by her two-toothed grin and somehow seem visibly reluctant to part her company. This is her spirit. This is how she came into this world. Wide-eyed. Attractive, in every sense of the word.
Somehow she is prospering, in spite of the fact that she spends most if her days around me. Me the melancholy, the grief-filled, the lost.
I’m not writing because I simply can’t muster the energy to do it. Nor the inspiration. Nor the confidence to believe that anyone wants to read it. And writing for myself is writing for a cruel and unappreciative audience. It’s difficult enough managing to brush my hair regularly, let alone complete multiple sentences.
One day I’m going to deeply regret all of the moments I failed to record during Lyra’s first year. I keep making the mistake of saying, I’ll do better with the next one.
And then I remember.