Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic

by Milarca C. Kruse

Feeling her was overwhelming. Thinking of her as a tiny mishmash of undifferentiated cells, floating around, doing somersaults in my insides.

She rose plumper by the week, erasing my belly button completely. I saw her black-and-white impression yet could not yet believe her existence.

And then she came. The most frightening thing I have ever done. I felt as if I was going to die. I shook too hard to hold her.

She looked exactly like a bright-red Glow-Worm all swaddled in flannel.

She scared me more than all my childhood monsters and playground bullies. Yet she was completely defenseless.

Learning to love her as she gave me warmth lying on my chest while we watched television. She made my mind bigger. She expanded my heart and my hips. She made my anger and rage smaller. My very own human puppy.

She bounced first on all fours, then as a gypsy-trained bear, always in synchronicity to the music. I remember perfectly:  it was beautiful. 

An old soul in a recently made body.

Her very own person. Unlike me. Unlike him. Just herself.

But so very much flesh of my flesh. For her first steps were taken only when there was a proper audience and applause.

The breath-robbing feeling of seeing her evolve. Tall, full of grace. Gilded threads mingled in her java hair. Her cheeks watercolored in the same shade of pink as the apples that are picked in Quebec. 

Her mind crisp and clear. The miracle of a eight-year-old brain remembering and understanding the path of a single drop of blood through the human heart.

Seeing her doing exactly what I used to do, but better.

The sappiest song she could possibly find. In a puffy pink tutu and ballet slippers laced up way too high around her tiny ankles.

Mine was Air Supply. Hers was Phil Collins. And I felt myself move inside of her, an undifferentiated mass of my sad chromosomes mixed up, making up hers.

And we both dance like angels.

Copyright © Milarca C. Kruse 2003