a memory for cupping in my palms, like there might be a tiny bird inside:
walking with your father across our neighborhood for breakfast before he hailed a cab to the airport. how hard he works for us. how we passed pumpkin stand after pumpkin stand under a steely sky, deep in october country as we are. how rita swayed to ella behind the espresso machine. how the baby girl names we're pondering danced on our lips over croissants with cold butter and jam. how you kicked when we spoke to you, your father's hand on my belly right there in the cafe. how we wondered of your disposition, your head of hair. how tenderly we loved, each other and you.