Dear Jubilee

In the morning Maddox smells like folded laundry; the sweet scent tucked in the creases- neck, armpit, elbow, knee. He and I are always first to wake and I sit with him, in the big chair behind the window, looking at trees and breathing him in. Later he smells older, a mixture of sweat and apples and the soured milk from breakfast clinging. He smells of dirt and trees and over-turned rocks, of fresh air and birch bark. At some point in the course of day he cries, chubby arms lifted in question. I kneel beside him and he curls, like a small animal into my neck and I smell the warmed breath of his mouth.

The first thing I will do when they place you in my arms is smell you- your hair, your forehead and eyelids and neck. I will wonder if I am smelling your clothes or Rwanda, or if it’s really you, the likeness of you filling the air like a thumbprint. I can’t wait to bury my face in your neck, little girl, daughter of my heart.

When your dad was falling in love with me he asked so many questions. He wanted to know the shape of every crook and crevice of my soul. My dreams, my songs, my poems, my routines. He wanted to know what I liked for breakfast and why, if I liked the windows rolled down with the wind whipping my hair or up with the air-conditioning on, every place I had gone, every place I wanted to go. He couldn’t get enough information. He craved every detail that made me me.

That’s how I feel about you right now. I want to know who you are. I want to know how you are and what you are. I want to know the sound of your voice- your giggle, your hum, your cry. I want to look into your eyes and see the person, the single soul God fashioned. I want to watch you unfold your personality and wear it. Are you bold and inquisitive, daring, rogue? Are you soft and pliable, sensitive, introspective? Will you climb trees and run wildly? Will you whisper to bugs and butterflies, sing small songs? I want to know you, feel the weight of you in my arms, touch you. I want to wake up and not feel like I am still caught in a dream that doesn’t seem to have an end. I want you to be a real set of ten fingers and ten small toes.

I love you, Jubilee and I don’t really even understand it. You are an intricate part of me, perhaps you always were. Maybe you were sleeping, lying dormant in some small corner of my heart. And now my heart has woken. And now I love you, even if it doesn’t make sense. We belong to the Maker of miracles.

Love Always,