Seven

In an hour, I need to make cupcakes.

The girl who was once my baby asked for them, homemade and chocolate, for her birthday celebration at school tomorrow. Because tomorrow, she is going to be seven.

Seven!

The night before she was born was frosty cold, my long maternity skirt catching flakes of snow in the parking lot of an Italian restaurant that has been out of business for three years now. My mom, husband and I–a lonely trio, newly bereft–stared, pie-eyed, at each other across the table.

The day we brought her home to our apartment, it snowed.

I sat in a recliner and held her, watching the white fluff fall. The trees swayed and she hiccuped softly.

She made me a mom.

Tonight she is tall and sturdy, reading a novel and chewing on her finger. When her hands get tired, she props her leg on the opposite knee and holds the book between her big toe and the smaller one next to it. Her hair is a fabulous tangle, her character outstanding.

Her little brother adores her. Her father dotes on her.

She is, simply, my own heart beating outside of my body.

My Em, Emmie, Emmeline.

Happy birthday, baby.