October 29, 2012
Dear Bucky,
We have a daughter.
It's so strange to write this.
We have a daughter, and she's perfect.
You told me once that all babies look alike, but she looks just like you. I wish you could see her. I wish you could be here.
It's 3 a.m. She's asleep but I can't relax. I look at her and I feel like crying. How can I do this without you?
This letter isn't making sense. I have to get everything in order. Our daughter was born on October 26th. The doctors said it was an easy delivery – but it felt hard enough to me! I named her Margaret Mary, after Peggy and your mother. Margaret Mary Rogers.
Dr. Rao checked in on her immediately, of course. Said she's healthy and "on the big side of normal". Will she be like me? When will I know? What would it be like for her to grow up strong enough to lift a car? Fast enough to outrun one? Never being sick, or weak?
There's a full moon tonight, but the city lights make it look so small. Do you remember the moon in La Gleize in that old church? The snow falling through the roof?
Our daughter already has hair – it's darker than I expected. Darker than mine. Her eyes are kind of a murky gray, but I hope they'll be green like yours. She's sort of squashed looking to be honest, but she's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I look at her and want to protect her from ever being hurt. But there's so much that could hurt her. If I was smart, I'd hide in a cabin for the rest of our lives.
I'm trapped between the most intense joy and most terrible fear.
How can I do this, without you?