My baby, her baby

After she checked in last night, I went into her room, brushed her hair with my hands, and said, "My little girl... I used to carry you on my shoulders... now you're doing the most amazing thing a human being is capable of." We both cried.

I left before the last exam at eleven. At eleven fifty my wife came and got me, disoriented, in the waiting room. "Hello grampa," She said.

"Really?" I asked.

"Yes, and they're both fine. You can come see her now."

I went in the room, but I couldn't look, they were rearranging my daughter's hospital gown. I couldn't even get a glimpse of the baby. Instead they placed her in my arms. My eyes watered again. Like they did so many years ago, in the same ward of the same hospital.

Avalon has a shock of red hair, almost the same colour as my daughter's. And as I cradled this small and delicate being, yawning and staring out of unfocused eyes up at me, I re-learned a lesson taught me a long time before. You can travel anywhere you want in this world, and set foot in any sacred place. You can learn any knowledge, and master any discipline. You may be the wisest scholar, or the saintliest person.

But you will never ever see anything holier and more powerful than the face of a baby who has just entered this world.