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.***