Monday, December 7, 2015

7 minutes rushwrite

So out of practice but feeling like I need to start this gig up again somehow. In the hours before you were born I had several lines running through my head and sometimes coming out of my mouth.

May angels guide you home.

Lead me, guide me.

O my o (no skazono po russki.)

Je peux le faire.


Andrew Clyde.

And the waves crested and fell. Euphemism for the pain which intensified and then fell as my body worked to bring you outside of me.

And now you are here. Have been here. Three and a half weeks now. In the broad large huge eternal scope of things that is barely a blip of a blip.  But your presence has been like a constant. Like you've always been mine.

You snore as a write these words--a congested, adorable little snore. And I would hold you all day long if there weren't other things and others to attend to.  I would.

Angels did guide you home. I believe in angels. Seen and unseen.