I grew to love your father in Austin, Texas. I had just suffered one of those catastrophic breakups that become a marker of time.
He could see how badly I was broken. And while he did not know me well at the time, he took it upon himself to help me piece myself back together—the way he had done for himself long before I knew him.
Buddhists believe that a person’s presence—their full undivided attention—can be healing. This is true for your father.
Simply existing in his vicinity gave me the belief that I could make myself whole again. He would speak when he felt he had the words to ease my suffering. Other times, he would remain silent for long stretches, quietly reminding me I wasn’t alone in my heartache.
When you are older, I will take you to Texas. I will show you the longhorns. I will place you atop my shoulders so you can get a bird’s-eye view of them grazing away at the little bluestem grass.
You will watch in wonder at how gentle and patient these enormous beasts can be—with their magnificent ten-foot horns and 2,000 lb. frames. I imagine they will feel familiar. I imagine they will remind you of your father.
I pray you never suffer a broken heart, but that's like praying away the tide.
If you do—when you do—you will have your father. You will have your mother. You will have your family. You will have your friends. And, if you need it, you will have me.
After Texas, your father and I became inseparable.
We partied in basement clubs in Mexico City. We gazed up in wonder at the ceilings of Sacré-Cœur Basilica in Paris. We chased our dreams in cafes across Manhattan and Brooklyn. We stumbled through the alleyways of East London. We discussed matters of the heart on the many red eyes that carried us to these faraway places.
Then you arrived.
Your father asked me to be your godfather over the phone. He had planned to do it in person—but you were early, darling. You were clearly ready to meet your parents, to get on with living.
For the first few days, they kept you in the NICU. This broke your momma’s heart. Trying to see you felt like breaking into Fort Knox. The nurse at the front desk knew what precious cargo she was guarding—she sized me up as she presented me with form after form that required my signature.
Your father then scrubbed me in.
It’s a moment I will remember for the rest of my life. He punched a timer and handed me a prepacked sponge, brush and soap. Together, we held our hands beneath the running water as we cleansed every square inch of our fingers, hands and wrists.
Somewhere amidst the scrubbing, my eyes grew wet. I realized this would be the last time I stood in the presence of your father without yet knowing his daughter.
We put on our gowns, walked the short distance down to your room, heard the whoosh of the automatic doors open—and there you were.
After your father fed you, changed you and swaddled you in a cloth not much bigger than a dinner napkin, he asked me to take a seat.
He placed you delicately in my arms. I felt the warmth of your head heat my cold hands—and the chill from my hands must have surprised you.
For you opened your eyes, Sienna.
You looked up at me and then at your father, standing over my shoulder.
And I wept.
I wept too.
And I wept, as well. Thank you.