12 April 2018
we are eleven weeks together earthside, and every day, every hour, is a study in boy. from him, i am learning to slow for happiness, to observe what's beyond the window, to notice the movement of shadow and light. about him, i am learning that francis loves: baths with mama, the sound of the hair dryer, his swan mobile, yellow submarine, burrowing into my soft mama chest.
one day, not far, francis will surely be a shadow of his papa. but in the heavens of francis brown, eleven weeks new, there is but one truth: i am his sun. (my son, my sun.)
i am, every day, every hour, discovering his soul, his body, his mind. each so precious. each so sacred. i resist any outside nudge to somehow progress him. instead, i look to him to lead these hours and i meet him in the holy land of who and where he is, right now, in each fleeting right now we have together while all the world keeps spinning.
francis has slowly, slowly, slowly awoken to the world around him, to us, to his own two hands. francis is playful, kicking chubby legs outward and flickering his tongue and chasing this motion with a song of glee. francis is curious, swiveling his neck to gaze and observe and widen his eyes for a better view. francis is affectionate, imitating expressions and nursing with sighs of gratitude and following his mother's voice around a room. francis is a lover, a poet, a singer of the song of his people and somehow, somehow, i can hear it.
i am every day, every hour, consumed by his yearning cuddles, and by how he needs me, only me, nothing more. (how much it is i who needs him.)