I hesitate to write it down, afraid to betray it.
It is her hair that draws me in. Long strands of ribbon, layered in amber and honey along mother's shoulder. She is nestled in tight, asleep to the world, cocooned in warmth and song. Pink toes peek out from behind the chair - bare feet on a hot day - and her skin is so golden I must stop myself from reaching out to feel it's warmth.
As people stand to sing and pray, father takes his turn and mother stands, too. A tall man, he curves his body around hers, slowly, barely, swaying with eyes closed.
Music has quieted and the people reclaim their seats. The girl sleeps in her summer dress, while mother connects syringe to tube, gently feeding. She does not wake when father gives her back to the place she fits best, hidden in mother's womb.
This girl - baby - not yet two, the recipient of the deepest love I have ever seen.
Taking it in, I feel crude and crass. I am an intruder stealing secrets. I yelled this morning, replacing tenderness with nettles. I am ashamed.
But then it washes over me. Mercy rains down in gentle ribbons of amber and honey. It's that feeling when they place that tiny human in your arms, when you are gifted with something invaluable, incalculable. When you know you you're not worthy, and yet it's meant for you.
I take in the moment, so overwhelmed with honour He chose me to witness it. I think I love her, too.
Palm Sunday.
