one week.

one week of our francis lafayette. the earliest and tend'rest of days. each a poem of milkstains and an unmade bed, coffee cups and papa's swaddles. each a song of tiny laundry and magnificent fingers and pacific blue eyes and big love. (three where there used to be two.)

mornings, we watch the sun rise over the water towers and you nurse in our bed, rooting with desperation and gulping with sighs of gratitude. we've nowhere to be but here, now, all of us tucked together beneath our roof. (i have never felt so safe. i have never felt such purpose.)

afternoons, we walk and we walk and we walk. to the post, to the coffeeshop, in central park. we stretch our legs and we fill our lungs. we close our wooden shutters and curl into each other for sleep. time means nothing. (this time means everything.)

nights, i move by instinct to tend and rock and feed and soothe. i don't need to turn on the lights to know my way around our home, to know my way around you. (you need me. like i needed you.)

meals and posies and snail mail and happy wishes arrive as if by parade to welcome you. (we have been blessed by our people.)

we are figuring it out. as if by magic, we are figuring it out. you are utterly familiar to us. (you have become us.)

(i can't take my eyes off you.)