Second Act

January 17, 2024 – for my niece

Second Act

The first baby is long the only, attention held center stage by a childless aunt who trod the boards for decades waiting. First Baby captivates; her milky blue gaze makes pictures out of clouds, haloed by golden strands that zigzag like twisty bends on roads she rides in Thailand, Ghana, Michigan. Later, she ushers us through. She is remarkable, we say. First baby is having her own, Maeve Claire Moon, glimpses of her body given over to mothering appear like felled orange leaves under a maple tree in early October. I am as surprised as you, she wonders to baby. The planet pitches her entrance rough and tumble, a five-star tutor for future travel, constellations owing her when she finds herself on bumpy rails in France, Ireland, home. First baby’s abounding heart on a new journey of imperfect, validation, slumber—limelight in defiance expands, bends, will carry them forever co-stars. Milky way eyes just like mine. They are remarkable, we say.