Tuesday, October 6, 2009
O Eva Jane, it seems you're not a bird anymore. Or maybe you're still a bit of a bird, but then equal parts wind and girl and sunshine and laughter. Already, it's hard to remember how you felt in my arms when you were first born, hard to imagine how my mind occupied itself all those years before you came. Your cry is no longer a seagull's squawk; it's become its own thing entirely, become you. 319 days on earth, and now fall is here. You're going to love its leaves and its breezes; and it--like everything that has ever come to know you--is going to love you too.