The clothesline is hung with early morning dew as we sit breaking bread together. This is a life I never imagined, or, rather, dared not imagine. And yet, here you are at 8-months-old, declaiming over bananas and applesauce, and batting an empty egg carton onto the floor before turning to me with expectant eyes. Your presence still surprises me, every day.

In the dark before we gather ourselves up from bed, you nurse and then sit, singing up the sun, nuzzling or scratching at my closed eyes, ready for the day to start hours before I am. You laugh and throw yourself backwards repeatedly in full confidence of soft landings.

I haven’t got a thing to show a world that expects productivity in tangible form. And yet, I have never been so happy, so rooted in the now, so at peace with life unfolding as it wills. It is like walking out into a garden every day completely absorbed in and aware of each rose blooming. Before you, when was the last time I paid attention like that? When was the last time I noticed the minutes, heavy with grace and gratitude?

This is my life. The one I dared not imagine, each slow-quick day an unexpected blessing.

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