September 3, 2006
The baby lies in her playpen on a summer day. She's beside a window in the old house. For once, she's on her own, not being fussed over by adoring grandparents and siblings and parents, not been fed, changed, or bathed. This baby came along late in her parents' life, so she is a special gift. To her sisters, she's a living doll. What with one thing and another, she doesn't get much time to herself. The baby looks out the window and sees the snowball bush outside waving in the breeze. She laughs delightedly. It's her first laugh. Hers.