The baby slid into our lives one day earlier this month. I can’t recall exactly which particular day, but the day was particular for the sliding.
Grandparents arrive, enter the dimmed room, quieting exultation. They sight the child, suppressing gasps of joy.
Lips a circlet of pink, the baby in stillness. Parents drained – but for now – electric with joy, unaware of their deepening sleep deficit, aware only of baby, baby, baby, miracle, fact, miracle.
What is this love that bursts into being? This finer, purer love, this love that seeks nothing of the child, this love that demands nothing beyond that she be? This love, this agape? The grandparents are certainly agape. At this child, this miracle, fact, miracle.