Thursday, January 8, 2009
Your feet, Eva, are the length of my thumbs, and your eyelashes are pale as snowflakes, and your breath is all sweetmilklove. Your cry, Eva, a rare bird--heartbreaking; your fingers, elegant fish; your eyes, deep sky.
Forty days you've been with us.
Forty days and forty nights, and this morning, I stared down at you, and my throat caught my breath, like it does these mornings with you, and the afternoons, the evenings; caught it like one of those pretty dreamcatchers I used to hang over my bed, and, in that moment, I wanted only that moment; in that moment, I knew of nothing else that would ever make me feel so utterly complete.