::my little ladybug

One year ago today, at 12:12 p.m., my darling niece, Emma Charlotte Highfield, was born.

I have grown to love her more than I could have ever imagined, dreamed or conceived.

Below is a poem I wrote as an attempt to honor her.
My sentiments toward her are far too vast for consonants and vowels, but my attempt was diligent and heartfelt.

Gestation

In the dogmatic corridors of Bible college,
I met stodgy clergymen
who, in their stilted vernacular
introduced one word, claiming it connoted
a plethora of everlasting virtues;
Peace.
Wellness.
Perfection.
Safety.
Harmony.
This six-letter summation of sacred blessings:
Shalom.

A clinical depressive prone to daily sobs,
passing hours locked inside my dormitory,
I craved this mythical abstraction,
yet eventually equated its existence with magic
carpets and airborne swine.

One decade passed,
and like a desperately overdue
extravagance, I brushed against its divinity.

My brother's beloved wife -
her belly swollen to an enormous orb -
finally pushed forth an infant woman,
and hours later I sat silent,
her tiny fist beneath my chin,
her flushed cheek perched against my bosom,
my fingers like a giant's across her spine,
my body pulsating with the sound
of every nucleus
of every cell
whispering,
Shalom.