but this. this, i cup in my palm like a tiny bird. like the treasure that it is. something thrumming through my marrow in ways prose will always fail.
sunday in madrid as the leaves began to turn. myself and my one and our one. one napping in my lap, the other napping in my tum. and here it is: this is what i wanted.
i wanted and waited and prayed for this. for him, for this baby, for the others, to live a single afternoon just like this. his girl, their mama -- it's all i have ever wanted to be.
and in noticing myself living it, to relax into the silence and let what could be, be. to feel held in it.