Six

As she was undressing for her bath tonight, Emmie revealed that she was much petted at school today.

“Mom,” she said, swaying from one foot to the other, “everyone was blowing me kisses and hugging me today. It was like, everyone was just loving me so much.”

“Well, that’s probably because tomorrow is your birthday,” I replied. I turned my eyes away from the bathtub faucet and looked at her,  taking in her coltish legs and her long hair. “You’re going to be six tomorrow, you know.”

She rolled her eyes at me, something she’s been doing more and more lately.

“Miss Stacy doesn’t think so,” she said. “She thinks it’s because I have a nice character.”

So she does. Just over the past month, the girl, she’s growing up. Today isn’t the first time her teacher has remarked on this newfound poise.

Last week, I picked her up from school and Stacy leaned her head into the open passenger-side window of my car. She told me my daughter had a great day, and that she seemed to be “really maturing.”

“She’s just been very grown-up,” she said. “When the other kids are getting into stuff they shouldn’t, she doesn’t get involved. She says, ‘I can’t do that, it wouldn’t be appropriate.’”

I made a joking remark about how I wish she would mature at home, too, but it’s true.

She plays with her brother lovingly and well, humoring his passion for trains and cars and making up silly games that only the two of them know the rules to. She clears her own place at the dinner table.

Last week, she finished “Charlotte’s Web,” calling me up to her bedroom as she read the last few pages. She clutched her ladybug flashlight in one hand and the book in the other.

“I read it,” she said, simply.

Tomorrow, Emmie will be six years old.

As I write this, I remember the eve of her birth. I remember the Italian meal we ate with my newly widowed mother. I remember the bitter taste of winter in my mouth as I navigated the icy restaurant parking lot, holding my husband’s arm for balance.

I remember the skirt I wore, and how my hair was as short as a boy’s. I remember the fear.

I remember my sadness, so co-mingled with joy.

Over the years, I’ve struggled with the paradox of grieving my father while carrying and giving birth to my first child. Emmie’s very existence is inextricably tied up with his death. For a long time, I carried guilt about that.

Tonight, six years later, I’m grateful, instead.

I’m so grateful that a higher power saw fit to bless me with this beautiful companion at exactly the time that she was most needed. I used to resent it, to feel that I was somehow cheated because my father didn’t get to meet her.

This birthday is a milestone not only for Emmie, but also for me. Because this year, for the first time, I’m not mourning the past, even as we celebrate her future.