I try to write as she sleeps beside me on the bed. Her arms are crossed one over the other, while her small mouth suckles the air. Still sleeping, she thrusts her fingers into her mouth, gnawing on them like the small animal she is, before drifting back into a quiet peaceful slumber.
It is difficult for me to write, or even accomplish much, when we lie together like this.
All I want to do is stare at her. To breathe her in. To gently lift the edge of the muslin blanket away from her face when she shifts in her sleep. Her pink tongue flicks in and out of her mouth. A wide grin stretches across her dreaming face, and, occasionally, a throaty laugh will escape her small lungs, startling me with its suddenness.
Writing, reading, laundry, work; it all feels so impossible these days.
And yet, there is so much writing, reading, laundry and work to do.
Time is laughing at me. I am trying to control it--with notebooks and iPhone photos--to hold it in my hand, as I hold her when she sleeps.
There is so much to be done, and yet, as I sit here, staring, all I can think about is this:
What marvels can a nearly-seven-week-old possibly be dreaming of?