she curls up next to me on the couch, pulling her knees to her chest so her entire body rests beneath my arm. mama arms reach far and cover much. her baby face is fading but at times i spy my little one in those big blue eyes. she stares off, pondering things as one does and says without looking, are you sad that i'm growing up mama?
there is a hint of sadness that follows the sands of time, slipping through hands clutched tight. i fear this faulty mind. the one that promises to remember, turns about face and forgets. so i turn them over regularly hoping they stick.
"every man's memory is his private literature"
i watch the little one walk around in all her glory. curls tight, ringlets actually, except for the frizzy spot where she sleeps. she smiles, four teeth shining and one sweet dimple. seventeen months have come and gone. those moments of wonder and fear of the not-knowing in the first week of her life are far removed. now we count words and play pat-a-cake and delight in the sound of her laughter.
these are our days. simple yet full. memories in the making. our literature poured out as an offering.
*just writing with heather