Clea

Clea Soledad Salavert Wykes is my daughter. She was born at 3:37pm on Friday, 3 January 2003 at Calvary Hospital in Canberra, Australia and she died at around 7am on Tuesday, 29 September 2009 on Lalomanu Beach, Samoa.

She didn’t get much time in this world but every minute she spent here is etched into my memory. I remember more of her life than she would have remembered and I am here to keep that memory alive.

This is my daughter:

Her dark brown eyes sparkle. They are the first thing anyone notices. Full of life and fun. Dark chocolate brown, almost black but not quite. Like bonbons or truffles; good enough to eat. Surrounded by long dark lashes and bushy eyebrows.

Her hair is also dark brown. Not as dark as her eyes. Like gooey dark caramel or golden syrup. Sticky and lush, edible, delicious. Cut in a bob, stopping just below her ears.

Pixie ears with a little point at the top. So small and dainty; the envy of all of us with larger ears.

Her skin is brown; olive one would say. As summer approaches, her hands darken. Sleeve lines are left on her arms. She never burns in the sun, only browns. Slow cooked. Soft and silky her skin looks.

Her nose is not as it should be and will continue to grow. Large sized nostrils, broadish base. Sitting centrally between the intelligence of her eyes.

Her mouth is ample. Full, red lips. Endlessly kissable lips. Like ripe strawberries ready to be nibbled on. White, straight teeth within, possibly too close together. There won’t be enough room there one day.

She laughs a lot. She frowns and sulks. She wants it all her own way, after all she’s the firstborn and only girl. She’s bossy and pushy. She’s shy and clingy. “Don’t go Mummy” she often says. She won’t speak until she’s sure, certain, she knows who you are. No risks.