The snow lay on the ground. A little baby girl is born.

She will call me Baba as the others do.

So many hands reach out to hold her. Big and small hands.

I nestle her to me and touch the softness that is her skin. She is part of me and she always will be. There is so much I need to pass on, but so little time.

What will I tell her? That life is short and you must be swift to love and make haste to be kind? That your memories are your most precious treasure?

All the wise words from the people I write about? “You were not born for yourself, but to be useful?” "Stand up and be counted—no matter how unpopular the cause?” “That life is an adventure and that you must never stop being curious?”

I’ll tell her all that and so much more. But for now, I want her to stay warm. And know how much she is loved.