Wednesday, May 20, 2009
It doesn't matter who calls me. Or comes over. Or emails me. Or meets with me. I always go home to this thing. This little piece of flesh that drinks a bottle of whole milk in the groggy morning light. The girl whom I do not know how to separate myself from.
Today she sat on my lap after her breakfast and I massaged her ankles and feet as we watched the rain fall against the window. Ruby puttered around down the hall. There's an atmosphere here in our house. It's a racing, busy feeling that has moments of soft, slow realizations and you can't have one without the other.
There's space between us all tonight, as they lay in their beds. But really, truly, we're all one big pot of soup.