Originally posted on Life on the Outside, 31 July 2006.
Sophia Elizabeth O’Donnell, born 29 July 2006.
What does it feel like?
I’m not sure. It feels like gravity itself has subtly but immensely shrugged, and is reasserting itself around a new centre. The lines I take now, when walking or driving, are not free. They are trajectories directed by a new force, bound to a new orientation. Where once there was the entire pirouetting compass, now there is only towards you and away from you.
In the light, too, there is something new. Even in the dim little canyon of Holles Street itself (that’s just outside, by the way), where the fag-smokers and double-parkers are normally troubled by no more than a frail approximation of sunlight, there is something else now. It eludes the eye, dissipating when you turn to catch it, but it is something. A new kind of radiation, between or beneath the light; all but unseen, but already busily pervading the cosmos, from stately Merrion Square to the sleek band of the N11 and beyond.
And of course, at the heart of this widening sphere, something burns. Something that has flared fabulously into the void, something uninventedly lucent. It is a star, it is a new star.
My love, my love. I’m so glad you could make it.