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.