It is late afternoon. I sit with my baby on my arm. Her head is cradled by the crook of my elbow and the rest of her ensconced along the length of my arm. I hold her close and bend down to touch my lips to her forehead. She scrunches her face and looks towards me. Her eyebrows are shaggy. Her nose wide and lips tiny. Hair is plastered over her head in slick waves of black. Her ears are set at the back of her head.
In the one week since her birth, her features have been growing on me. I trace outlines of her face, her tiny palm, her feet and memorize the lines on them. I hold each digit and marvel at the length of them. Her legs and thighs look so tiny and fragile. I scour her face for traces of my Appa. I find people on both sides of the family staring at me. Some times it’s the eyes. Some times it’s the tiny chin.
The days are getting to be recognizable from the sleep deprived haze it was. We are settling into a pattern. My baby and I. She eats and sleeps for most part. There are moments of solitude when the two of us stare at each other like we are souls from a long-lost past. The tug is recognizable. I find an incredible urge to kiss her senseless. I make do with her feet and hands.
This little bundle who seemed strange the day she was handed over to me now feels familiar. I recognize her. The person she is. The way her face is laid out. That which makes her Her. I am falling in love. Slowly and surely.