Stories. I miss the feeling of being a young mother of the words of my own worlds. I miss the cry of a newborn plot in my head, an infant of fiction that I will cradle in my heart until it’s strong enough to stand on its own. I miss deciding if I will see this literary child as a boy or a girl—if the story will be masculine or feminine—but thinking that it doesn’t matter at all that much in the end.
I miss crafting characters that I will give this baby, not as dolls or marionettes but as people that she would grow up with. I miss grooming her with twists and turns, with conflicts within conflicts, and with climaxes and denouements. I miss seeing her grow up into a full story. I miss seeing her bloom.
I miss all the nights I used to spend weaving “clothes” for her—the right adjectives, the clever repartees, the right mixture of glam and grit that would make her more human. I miss all the days where I had little inner battles, whether I should braid her hair with ribbons of happy-ever-after’s or just let her tresses fall to her shoulders, open-ended.
And I miss that proud moment when I know she’s ready to be seen by the world, to be read.
I miss it. Everything about it.