The party was underway in the lobby of the hospital, and everywhere I looked there was purple — in the streamers hanging from the ceiling, in the balloons emblazoned with congratulations, in the flowers filling the vases.
She was almost eight pounds when she was born. Full head of hair. Healthy lungs, too. I've never heard such volume from such a little being.
The handshakes and backslaps were genuine. The cigars were Cuban, and fresh. Everyone was there and the few tears that were shed were ones of happiness.
She was wearing a purple dress, and a bow was in her hair. It was purple and white. It was over her right ear.
Her aunt was holding her, wearing a matching dress, right down to the bow.
Her name was Everly.
She opened her eyes and I heard myself gasp. They were big, they were hazel, and they danced with the light of a thousand constellations. They were the eyes of her mother, and she smiled when she heard my reaction. The smile was mysterious.
"Look, Ron Davis," she said, touching her daughter's cheek. "Now I have another goob in my life."
When I woke up I still saw the constellations, long after the sun had risen to burn away the dream.