Your eyes were that much bluer today, the day that you cried your first tears. And your mom and dad have let you cry aplenty these past fourteen days, letting your lung capacity build, those loud, flat cornerstones of lingual development shaping your lips into an oversized oval, curling your tongue to the roof of your mouth, the redness growing in your neck and back, your legs kicking your swaddled blanket down and away.
But today your very first tears cupped themselves into the V at the corners of your eyes. Pupils wading beneath a watery surface once your lids opened again. Your mom had her heart broken. Your dad chuckled at the dolphin-like staccato accompanying the end of every stanza reeling with discontent.
But along with your newfound tears you let your mom and dad know that the tip of their pinky, serving these past two weeks as a failsafe pacifier, would no longer do. You would have tears. And there would be so much less denying them.
