chapter eight

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the setting sun hovers on the lips of the horizon, teasing a kiss of darkness. the grey clouds fill the sky, and their undulating cover coats a stillness across the windowsill. I adore these moments between happenings, when the world might become something new with my eyes as witness, and I have taken to sitting at the window, perched in anticipation of what might be. it occurs to me now, folded as I am into this spot, awaiting some fresh alteration and not-so-patiently cataloging every corner of house and sky and self for signs of newness, that perhaps it's the suspension of time which captivates me so for I am quite held by the quiet of this moment. in it, I find my heart beating a rhythm which chants your name, a call and response of love only a mother might know, and I sense your eyes on me from the kitchen. turning towards your presence, I break the stillness and with it your gaze, until we are both quite fixed on the other. you'll say something sweet about my hair, and the curling tendrils which bounce at the nape of my neck, and come to rest a hand just inside the collar of my shirt as you've done since your first breath. I'll whisper of the jasmine just out of reach and the evening's planned roast and the unlikely warmth of the day, and I'll dare you to stay put in my embrace an instant longer. I'll dare you in the pocket of my soul where my obsession with your existence lives, and you'll feel it because you were born there, and you'll linger. and then the mischievous cat will knock about pans or topple the laundry basket or otherwise disturb the loaded silence, and I'll watch as you wander off to reconcile the disaster. I'll find a cloud resembling nothing at all and stare as it shifts and hovers and remind myself that each moment is an in between, joyously bridging occurrences until the string is heavy with moments, and I'll listen as you counsel the cat's feelings and right the upset room and call out for me. I'll know the moment isn't over but beginning, and the line dividing these two worlds is delicate and faint. standing, I'll sink into the honey-soaked loveliness of almost.