When I was little, I used to love wearing my father's plastic rimmed glasses, bumping into things for his blindness, and I would sometimes spin, watching the tilted floor whirl.
"It was light already, and much cooler than in the lowlands. In the night, he had pulled the thin sheet over him, and he was still in his clothes from the journey, still filthy. In his fatigue, he had forgotten to wash. The sheets were soiled with mud. He cursed, and then smiled and shook his head, thinking, It is hard to be angry when one has been wakened by the laughter of children. Points of light shone through the cross-weaves of the bamboo wall, speckling the room. They have brought the stars inside, he thought and climbed out from under the mosquito net. As he walked to the door, the percussion of his footsteps on the wooden floor was echoed by a scurrying outside the door and more squeals. The door still hung open. He poked his head out."
--Daniel Mason, The Piano Tuner, pg. 167
We found out last night he is a wailer; after twenty four hours, this is apparently normal. Kelly bloomed as a mama: her patience was acute, her murmuring into the night soothed me to sleep too. I watched her lean over the bassinet, her bare back catching the moonlight, cooing at her baby whose face turned apple-red, whose lips trembled and his tongue wagged in his mouth.
He is beautiful and sweet and adorable even when he is screeching.
Kelly goes home today, and I will run back to my home for the evening. Ryan's long days are Tuesdays: he works during the day as normal, then teaches his graduate class from five to ten at a Minneapolis university. He won't be home until midnight; the dogs would not appreciate that kind of neglect. I need to sleep in my own bed for a night too. Though it was lovely to be here, to witness his first near-forty eight hours, I will need to be reminded of the garden, of the pots and pans, of the dust bunnies under the bed. The world continues to rotate, despite this incredible change.