My little daughter is perfect. I have moments sometimes, when I’m holding her hand or looking at her, when I think to myself that I am a human and she is a human, she is my cub, my baby. I held her hand tonight as she lay against me in the crook of my right shoulder. I could smell the warmth of her body wafting upward, see the tiny curls forming in the sweat along the base of her neck. She held both my hands with her hands, each of her fingers warm and soft. I picked at her baby fingernails with mine, catching the ends and pulling off the sharp places. This is my cub, I thought. This is my little human. Here we are, two humans, lying together in this bed in this house in the twilight as she moves into sleep. The moment was so basic, so contented, so perfect in its simplicity. I love my human child. I love every moment with her. She brings me grace and contentment. She is perfect.