January 14, 2021
January 9, 2021
January 7, 2021
i am sitting in the dark of our room, 6:35am, seventh of january. the curtain is drawn it could be raining but i wouldn't know. i look over to see my husband lit by the glow of his phone ~ checking his stocks, thumb smoothing over his bottom lip. he's taken up day trading in this great pause of our life, and he's actually become very good. he peels himself from our warm, gold filagree flannel sheets and stands up, making the signal for coffee towards me (two fingers pressed together, tilting wrist). i nod yes and smile, giddy.
our third child sleeps pressed against me through this early morning affair. she is so warm and peach-soft, the smell of midnight stars. Opaline Violette, born to us on the autumn solstice, a warm day in september. she is quiet like a fairy librarian and could watch the world from my arms for hours upon hours. she sleeps at her certain hours and there is sound when she smiles. she coos and squeals and i swear to god her joy has become my air. she is petite, unlike her birth weight, and long like an accordian, a ballerina, a blue iris. her ears tip out like her brother's, which actually come from their great grampy jim.
her skin is like olive moonmilk.
and when her big sister holds her i think:
mother of daughters, mother of sisters, mother of women.
July 9, 2020
i play this song a lot. i wonder if you will have dark curls. or blue eyes like your brother. or hazely-brown eyes like your sister. a small freckle on your wrists. dimples above your peach-bum. a soft cry. a deep gaze. will you know me by my voice or by my heartbeat?
the body you share with me feels ancient and seasoned. i apologize to you when my tears fall (you must be able to feel them if you can hear me) and a curse word falls from my mouth when i am unable to stand. i don't remember feeling buried in this type of physical pain but perhaps it is the body that allows our minds to forget the sacrifices that come with the sacred gift of carrying life. some days i can walk in an orchard of plum trees. some days i simply cannot. they are never split into good days or bad days: they are our days. the pain is a reminder that you are growing and alive and that i am carrying two hearts in one vessel. it is a gift. it is my honor.
nana is coming over on her lunch break to look at your new items. i will be making egg salad on sourdough bread with pickles and vinegar chips on the side. she loves you so much. your brother and sister love her beyond any words that i can mortally speak. when you meet her, you'll know this love, too.