Nocturne For A First Birthday
Sleepless, he finally rises quietly, not bothering to throw on a shirt in the sultry night. He hesitates as she gives a drowsy sigh, and waits, poised by the bedside, until he's sure that she is still asleep before he slips out of the still too-grand room.
In the hallway he hesitates; then, without really knowing why, he cautiously pushes open the nearest door and pads into the room. The moonlight streams through the window, bluish and remote, transforming the nursery into something like a shrine, or a chamber undersea, full of a liquid glow.
His youngest daughter is sitting up in her crib, her fuzzy hair silver in the light, wide awake and solemn. She turns her head as he enters, and with no sign of surprise holds up her arms.
He crosses to her silently, and leans down to pick her up. She is so heavy now, compared to what she was before, and yet still so light, so frail. She clutches at his shoulders, and finding no shirt to cling to wraps her arms around his neck instead.
"Hey, you," he says softly.
"Ayyah," echoes his daughter placidly.
"'at's a girl." He smiles a bit. "'at's daddy's baby, o gods--" as the words register on his ear and stun him, once again; every now and then it comes home to him, the wonderment of it. Where did he get the right to words like this, baby, daddy, daughter? And how is he going to deserve it?
He hugs her tightly against him, pressing his cheek to her hair, feeling something tighten dangerously in his chest of a sudden. The child gurgles softly, tranquil. Somewhere he hears a faint random music, the sound of mismatched wind chimes, sweet and plaintive.
"Baby girl," he murmurs without thinking, "little girl-baby, squirrel-baby, funny little thing," while a detached, unimportant part of his mind mutters, embarrassed, Gods. "Sweet funny baby girl. You know daddy loves you."
He could never bring himself to say this in so many words, in daylight; but in the soft clear moonlight it seems natural, simple, easy.