In a perfect world, she would not be mine, and I would not be hers.

In a perfect world, the millions of moments falling into each other leading to this collision of mother and daughter wouldn't be.

This world, you know, isn't perfect.

The chasm of beauty and broken opens and here we are. I find her in my arms, a constellation of tiny steps and big leaps. I did not give her life but at three weeks old she somehow gives new life to me. A faint star plucked out of the atmosphere and placed into the deep corners of my heart.

***

I slide the comb through the curls of my now two-year-old girl and wrap my finger around the tendrils, slow and soft. I slide off her glasses and press my cheek into hers and ask God to illuminate the shadowy spaces we feel but can not speak of, for fear of being swallowed whole.

In a perfect world, she'd throw her arms around my neck, and I'd whisk her around, spinning to a symphony of a little girl's giggles and her mama's laughs. Her head and her heart would beat in harmony with no pills to take or tests to try.

I press her soft legs into the folds of the braces, over and under, helping her stand. Maybe they'll help me stand, too. I cheer her on and scoop her tired body into mine.

Exhalation and exhaustion, around we go.

I'm proud of her and wish my star were brighter for her, worthy of her.

In a perfect world, my heart would not sink deeper into itself with a love so big and broken my lungs forget to push air back into the atmosphere. I would not string pretty and unpretty words together, whispering offerings and prayers, a beggar's pleas to a creator: make her whole.

***

Her almond eyes shine in the sun, and she throws her hands wide.  I push and she flies higher, a giggle spilling out and bubbling over the playground and into my soul.  The chains creak and she floats into the sky, free of the confines of earth.

She glides further and no time or space can hold her. I float up with her, along for the ride.

***

This world, you know, isn't perfect.

But sometimes we squint and we see it: promises of redemption spun in shimmering light. A cosmic show of now and not yet, wrapping us in and not letting go.

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Guest post written by Kayla Craig. Kayla is a full-time journalist turned work-at-home mom to four young kids via birth and adoption. When she’s not changing dirty diapers and refereeing lightsaber duels, she's up late hammering out stories of motherhood and perseverance. Kayla serves as project coordinator for Des Moines Moms Blog and is a co-host of Upside Down Podcast. She's the author of Just Really Joseph, a children's book about adoption. Instagram is her micro-blogging drug of choice.