I just saw a picture of my niece on the floor of my bedroom. Usually this picture is propped up over the head of my bed on one of those over/around the bed thingies in my dorm room. I guess in the move home it found it's way to the floor.
It's a picture of her on her first day of preschool, with her backpack and her cute little pigtails.
Whenever I see that picture I am reminded of the fact that I would do absolutely anything for that kid, something of which I am powerless to change.
I remember holding her the day she was born, and how when I looked into her eyes I saw my father, her grandfather's, eyes staring back at me. I also saw my sister's eyes, and my eyes. Eye colour is something my father, my sister, my niece and myself all share in common. Bright blue iris with yellow around the pupil. They're very beautiful, but more than that our eyes are what tie us together in many ways. The things we have seen, the things we will see, the things we will show to the next generation. The things our father never had the opportunity to show to his grandchildren.
It makes me very sad when I think about my father missing out on his grandchildren and his grandchildren missing out on him. He really was a wonderful human being with so much love and life.
I remember crawling into the hospital bed with him when he was too sick to run around the hospital with me on his wheeled fluid carrying thingy. He would put his arm around me and we would watch Disney movies and listen to the hum of the machines hooked up to his dying body. He could always make me laugh. Not just a chuckle, but a belly laugh. Happy father's day daddy. I know you're somewhere drinking amazing wine, in no pain, with Candy and Kashi and Ducky curled up around you, watching your amazing grandchildren grow up and looking down on your daughters with pride.
When I stay over at my sister's house and am lulled to sleep by the sound of my crying nephew, I can hardly wait to start the next day.
"Wake up Auntie Rachel wake up!" a voice squeeks, bouncing down the hallway. The door to the guest room slowly opens and the owner of the squeeky voice materializes before my half closed eyes. "Hi, wake up," she repeats. It's 8 am. If I had it my way I would be asleep for at least 4 more hours. I lie there, motionless, and she slowly creeps over to the bed, shakes me, and proceeds to curl up as close as she can possibly get to me.
I love her so much more than I thought I was ever capable of loving another human being. I hope she stays 5 years old forever, but I'm practical and I know that's asking too much of God.
Is hope it's not too much to ask that she has the most amazing life, that she goes to Wellesley, is allowed to marry whoever she chooses, never knows war or pain or suffering, and knows forever and ever that wherever she is in the world, her Auntie Rachel loves her more than anything.
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