She is much anticipated, this little girl. Droves of arms, hearts, and hands pause for her coming, and as in an echo I remember the waiting when my own girls were late to come to us. There is a whisper of Hush. And Patience. And then she arrives long and slow like the rain that will not quit on the other side of the window pane, the turbulent beauty of labor stretching out and bringing her into arms that wait, encircle, and love as though they have held her for seven lifetimes through.
Mirrored older sisters, twins, eleven, welcome her, too. And it is their story. At eleven they are girls, but instincts of maternal ways resonate in their gaze, in the innate, soft cradle of their arms, in their comforting shhhs when elbows shift and words are spoken, protecting already. The love of sisters is profoundly unquestionable in this room, in these first hours of life.