She woke up.

With the discomfort of being seconds old, her eyelids broke open, peering through the blurry vision and bright hospital lights. The struggle for a first breathe came quickly after, followed by her piercing cry.

Like everything new, fear accompanied her here, the first of many intimidating, pivotal moments for this infant soul.

“Penelope,” the feminine sound was gentle like silk, and somehow felt familiar and reminiscent to her. “Penelope,” it cooed again, cradling the frightened child in a nurturing caress. “You are so loved Penelope.”

The woman laid a drowsy kiss upon the baby’s head, adoration exuding from every gentle touch.

The love Penelope felt in that moment, raw and pure, was the foundational breathe that she would learn for herself in years to come. Along with learning how ripe mandarins taste on a summer evening at the beach, and how to draw nectar from the honeysuckles in her backyard. There’d be more central moments too, like the effervescent thrill of a fist kiss, and the resounding sense of pride the day she’d graduate college.

Penelope, like the mothers before her, also would experience great tribulations. She’d come to know too well the empty stomach of a broken heart, and the overwhelming fear of it never being mended.

Then one day, when all the life she had to live was spent, her family gathered round, her children and children’s children smiling at her with teary eyes, reminiscing of old times. She again experienced the same raw and pure love she had on the first day of her life.

Penelope closed her eyes for a last time, a ghost of a smile still lingering on her lips.

Then she woke up.