11 months

sweet love, I'm trying to remember when you were new. you would fold yourself like a paper swan at my breast, eyes closed, soul still somewhere in-between and hazy. but I can't recall much else. the memories of your first weeks have been wiped away by exhaustion's tricky elbow, and now, here we are. your knees knock at my belly and your arms stretch up over your head. you draw a circle with your finger on the glossy page of a book and ask, "dis? dis?"

there's a space that grows warm between our bodies when we lay to nurse at night. over time, as we live and speak and bleed energies into one another, this space will become thicker, more colored, more tangible. it will be cold at times, but mostly warm, quiet, and familiar. but now? the space between our bodies is sweet and untarnished, like milk, like honey. we have never been so pure. I think of this often. 

sometimes, I'm very tired. you've learned to kick and twist like an animal when you're taken from something you love.  (isn't it funny how early on we learn to cling wildly to the things we cherish?) you haven't yet learned to listen, or to be gentle, or to leave things you shouldn't have alone, so for ten hours of the day, I'm fumbling along at your ankles, gently guiding you away from the things that may sting or shock or cut you. and sometimes, I grow angry. angry at myself, really. yesterday, I thought to tell your father that I'd ruined my own life by having you. the words filled my mouth and turned sour, so I swallowed them. and I'm glad that I did, because the feeling passed soon after. 

I'm doing my best, sweet one. I'm trying to keep the space between our bodies gently smoldering with only love - never anger, or impatience, or blame. you've taught me many things. like the difficulty of patience, and how quickly I become overwhelmed, and the serenity of surrender. but mostly, you've taught me that I have a choice. in every moment, I am the one who decides: here, now, what will I offer?