At 2:00am today, Sarah had Isaiah. I can’t stop staring at his little photograph. It’s like I’m glued to it. I can’t imagine how she must feel, this same feeling times a million, with him making sweet, helpless noises from her arms.

I’m so overcome with how full life is in it’s circular nature, and how beautiful. To think that we, we girls are becoming mothers. We girls who would muddy our tights up and dig traps for robbers with our tiny fingers. Who would squash berries from Gran’s garden and argue about who got to be which boxcar child. ( I always wanted to be Violet, even though I had never read a lick of the books.) The girls who grew up hundreds of miles away, but always stayed sisters, through handwritten letters, plane trips, and week long visits that always seemed to get sucked up into some time vacuum.

It still baffles me that the girls have grown up. I remember when I first began to feel it happening, small shifts in our little world that signaled to us: adulthood is coming. “I wonder what it will bring,” one of us said one year on a beach.

I never realized just how beautiful it would be, adulthood with you girls. And I never thought I could love anything the way I love your little ones. It’s so inexplicable the way you can instantly love someone to death, through and through, that you would do anything for them. It’s a love so innate, that begins the moment you hear that, finally, after nine long months, they are here. 
And just like that, without another word, without meeting, without any of it, you love them madly.

The Water

There was nothing like the feel of waterlogged boards drying under my bare feet. The way my hair smelled like the cast of a reel, something between bait and wind blown over bayou grass. It was the way the sun melted right into the waterline; an orange puddle that blended the seam between water and sky. Fragments of it’s light would scatter down waves all the way to the pier, illuminating abandoned neon corks as they bobbed between currents and fish hooks left in fallen trees. How we would romp in spandex bathing suits stretched across our barrel chests, ignoring the taunting calls of older brothers and the splinters in our skin. How my body was a vehicle and nothing more. Legs made for churning out speed down an ancient dock, ams made for hauling up the pier ladder, the bottom rungs covered in sea slime.

In that hour, all was washed persimmon. In that hour, the water was still warm.

Maybe it felt so sacred because it was the last fleeting moment before an adult would open the screen door, lean out and wave a hand through the wet air, beckoning us in.

We would make our way to the camp, little bodies exhausted in the way only eight hours of sunbeams can bring. With heaving breaths and damp towels, we turned our backs on the water, dripping sunken ships and pearls as we went.