(How do I say this? I want you to carry the sound of this wind inside of you; I want to carry it inside of me.)
At this moment, the clouds are passing across the silver square of window, and you are sleeping beside me, and I think of last year when I was at this house with these friends, how you were still inside of me, how I hardly knew you, how I knew you completely. I don't remember these woods being so peaceful then. Months ago, I was talking to a friend, another mother, and she said that her whole life she had never felt like she was enough; how becoming a mother changed that; how she is finally enough; how she is now all that she ever needed to be.
K. has filled the birdfeeder, and now the wind is interrupted by a song, by K. waving from the pool, by Lorca barking and D.'s laughter and S.'s wondering the world blue. The square of light has moved from the carpet to the bed, and still, you sleep, and still, I settle my hand on your back to feel your breath, and still the wind goes through the trees. I wish I could name the birds for you, wish I could keep you from the pain of your teeth cutting through, wish I could explain to you that this breeze through this screen feels as good as any breeze has ever felt. The crane, M. said, a very good sign, indeed.