It’s hard to believe. A decade. She’s bigger than life and has been from the day she first thrilled the air with the electricity of her hearty cry. I still remember that day, and the way her perfect face stared back at me in the white light of the delivery room. My little girl will be ten on Wednesday. Her decennial achievement is all the more special because of what she has achieved in that time.
She’s healthy. Her doctors are pleased with her progress. They waxed metaphorical on her last visit, looking over her MRI scans from May and comparing them to scans from two years ago. Progress is being made. And the best proof is the girl herself, who stumbles gracefully into adolescence; who taxes charmingly into self-reliance; and who reminds us every day that life is ripe and bellicose and uplifting and deflating all at once, and all in all. Through it all the scent of existence lingers and promises rewards with every trial.
On Wednesday, she’ll sit at the head of the table as we feast on El Chollo. She plans to eat her fill of green corn tamales, and I plan to lift my glass to her and celebrate everything about her – her tempestuousness, her blushing wit, her beauty, her intellect, and most of all, her resilience.