Almost Two

in 100 words

It's only been two summers, enough time to know that you will always remain beautiful and complicated. Those eyes with which you stare deeply, determinedly as though you can peer through our souls. Your laughter is as brilliant as sunshine. With you, we see the world more brilliantly.

Your mother has been with you for nearly every second of your life. And me too, except when I'm in the other room working, or when I'm out running or on an errand. Your brother too, who's already helping us with you, reading with you.

Yes, me, even more less of myself.

These Two

V. 

you, me and greek yogurt

I brought you a cup of Greek yogurt. The expensive kind, but also the inexpensive kind because it was sold at half the price being one month away from expiration. Nobody wanted it from this part of town. I spooned into the cup and slid it gently to your mouth . You exclaimed with a satisfied, smiling mmmmmm.

We fed each other, spread over a few days, cup after cup.


I.

on a Friday night

You discovered what mom and dad do at night. "Oh, so this is what you do when V. and I fall asleep. You clean up and wash dishes and have conversations." A few weeks went by, and you say, "I'll be staying up late to join your conversation."

Oh, the things you say.

Drinking Alone, Drinking the Ocean

Delicious ocean.
It devoured me, this ocean,
Delighted, this ocean.

We Are

The frail, tiny things
gently take upon their hands,
what makes us, we are.

This is How it Goes

I suppose this is how love stories go. Quiet walks and children playing in the park (in this jungle of a city!), a quick trip to the bakery for cookies, sipping such a pretty flat white, and hushed I-love-yous that are louder than the senseless noises of this world.

Sunday in Tipsy Sleepy Glimpses

It's four-thirty in the morning. The weather is so conducive to sleeping, and I've only had less than four hours. I nearly gave up on running but I'm glad I didn't. The cold feels even better when it slices itself on your face as you run or bike.

I.
He wanted to be alone, he said. He said it was because of his brother. Earlier, in the car, we told him that today would have been Francesco's birthday. He imagined how we looked like. You are not alone, I thought. We live our lives not just as our own, anak. As with Jairus. A few days ago, I heard him say, "See, I don't only think of myself. I'm not selfish."

V.
We were literally, rolling on the bed laughing. We thought we heard words from her today: lollipop, Peppa, Daddy. We heard the most beautiful peals of laughter.

I wash dishes, mop the floor, walk to the convenience store for drinks.  And while waiting for D. to put the kids to sleep, while waiting for D to come down to join me for the drinks, I listen to Puccini, E Lucevan Le Stelle, a song I picked up from Daniel Klein's book. Spotify still has chillout playlists.

D.
She comes down and we drink together. Souls alight in this restful, rewarding, blissful quiet of night.