i wake to the kitten-mews and happy-paws of a baby boy yearning for his mama's milk and his mama's arms. we wander into the still-dark living room and, oh, how that whisper of sky undoes me. something about the slow glow of an october morning.
into the kitchen. the cold tiles kiss my bare feet and i think i should wear my woolen slippers. i put on the water, grind the beans, decide which mugs, decide which song.
ladder creaks. papa lumbers down from the sleeping loft, gives me a kiss, scoops boy into his arms, and off they go, into the nursery. in an archipelago of blinks, the light is turning from grey to blue to gold.
i move in the kitchen. reaching, pressing, pouring, listening. they move toward the window, a symphony of steps.
"good morning, new york."
please write a book! xReplyDelete
i'll second what louise says (:ReplyDelete