Here I am, swinging my 3-year-old in wide arcs, dipping her slowly and snapping her back up so her laughter catches like chirps in her throat. I am in love with the heft and weight of her, the relentless pull towards schedules and information. In love with the space she takes up and her single-minded almost brutal pursuit of joy.
There he is, draped over a cup of coffee. Half asleep in the middle of the day, mentally picking through the sticky cotton of a banal hangover. Unapproachable for at least another hour. In the kitchen with the leaky drain, the chipped tiles and the cracked cabinet. Outside, the weeds are creeping up the walkway.
I’m amazed a thing can grow with this sirocco cutting a swath through our household. Yet here she is as plump as a berry. I turn her upside down, tickle her neck, keeping one eye always on the doorway. I tell her, “My darling, it’s true. I was made for you”.