The wisteria is blooming again, maybe the stress of heat and drought, maybe it feels desperate for one last chance to make babies, just in case this is it, and the smell is overpowering, and I say, do you want to smell them, and she says, yes, and I say, look, they are up high, do you want me to pick you up, and she says, yes, and she holds up her arms and I pick her up and she breathes in the smell and we breathe it in together and ooooh at the crumpled up purple flowers, and I watch the line of her nose against the sky, the translucency of her skin and the freckles standing out against her paleness, and I remember telling P, she's like the sun, and we stay there for a moment, on the golden August grass, pressed against the rustling live green wall, and then she pretends to fall asleep, suddenly a sweet boneless weight in my arms, the softness and heaviness of sleeping newborn that her body remembers, and I carry her into the house, and gently lower her down to the blue plastic tumbling mats on the floor, and as her feet touch the ground she shrieks and explodes into a new game.
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AuthorBitter Water
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. Archives
June 2019
Categories© Francie Nevill and Every Sweet Thing, 2017.
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