One Year

O Eva, last night we slept with the sliding glass doors open, and in between dreams, I heard the waves wash in and out. I had thought by now that you'd be entirely weaned, but here on vacation, sleeping between dad and me, it seems you're nursing more than ever. Every day I remember I know nothing (and everything) about mothering. It's been one year. Yesterday, you ate cake and rolled in sand and laughed wildly when we played the bumblebee game, and the day before, you sailed on a boat and saw stingrays and drank Sprite through a straw. Right now, you're sitting on the floor looking at your favorite book, and soon, we'll take a long walk on the beach before heading back to the home we love. I can feel the days and years layer on top of each other, can feel the infinite pull of my love for you. Happy birthday, my dear sweet bird. Signing off on The Blue Pitcher for a while; I'd rather be sitting on the floor reading books with you.

***Thanks, readers. Gone fishin'. Don't know when I'll make it back.***

Day 362

Or the day of sand in your belly button; the day of pineapple and ice cubes and sail boats; the day of thanks; of great thanks; of last year on this day going into labor with you; day of monkey bread and mango and so much love; of gratitude; of wondering if I ever even knew what gratitude was before I knew you; day of who-loves-you-baby-who-loves-you-baby-who; day of you-mama-you-mama-you.

Day 360

(not taking it too well)

Day 359

Day 358

I love it when you walk on sand.

Day 357

I love it when you hold my hand.

Fever

Pressing my wrist to Eva's forehead to feel for heat, time collapses. My wrist becomes my wrist five years from now, checking for fever, the days gone short, the blinds pulled tight; becomes my mother's wrist when I was a girl; becomes Eva's wrist when I've grown old. So much held in the body, in the delicate pulsing skin. You'll be okay, I say to her--my mantra, my promise--we'll all be okay.