dear sweet son,
will anyone ever know about this day? this stiflingly hot, thirty degree celsius, day.
which resembles many of the days before, and i imagine and hope, many days to come.
in paris, three weeks after the day you were born, this last day of june. you dressed in nothing but a green onesie, me in a brown nursing dress, both of us barefoot, my fingers red with ripe cherry juice. milky days, the curtains in the living room drawn, the fan at full blast, the window in the bedroom wide, wide open. milky days of nursing on demand, of cold dark beer and a homemade tea of my own making, filled with herbs to increase milk production.
of recovery from birth, nothing major, but still recovering.
of ice cubes in cold glasses of water and evian spray bottles, and the occasion shower in cold ice water, when it’s too much.
we listen to music, i play you beethoven as i eat my lunch of tomatoes and goat cheese, the kitchen heady with the scent of the basil plant. i sing songs of my youth, and we dance around the apartment.
while you nurse, i sometimes read to you from le petit prince. in french, but at this exact moment, who cares. there will be time for you to learn my mother tongue.
i sometimes put on a silly chick flick, when my mind needs to wander.
we nap in the afternoon, long, on the bed, cuddled together, skin to skin, the dog at the foot of the bed, i sometimes stretch my foot out to pet her soft fur. you sleep soundly, and you know when i get up, because when our skin parts you start to cry.
we laugh, at least, i do.
in the evening, when the heat of the day has subsided, we have a slow walk around the neighborhood, either in the baby bjorn or the baby carriage, the dog putting slowly alongside us, hindered by the heat and her thirteen, going on fourteen, years.
this was three weeks after you were born, and more, and less, the hot days of the start of summer.
will anyone ever know about these days we spend together?
now they will.