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  • Rosa Portillo


I tiptoed into

the dimly lit room

that smelled of baby powder

and bedtime body lotion.

Don’t wake the baby.

My parents warned me,

my brother warned me

and their words rang in my ears

as I secretly

strolled across the carpeted floor.

I didn’t care.

I had to meet her.

I knelt next to the crib

taking her tiny hand in mine

staring at her

as her eyes fluttered open

not making a sound.

Joy and adoration

filled my seven-year-old heart.

I kissed that tiny hand

and I became an aunt.

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