It's 3am and I am listening to you.
I am a curvy kind of female. Flat tummy, strong legs for skiing down mountains, a bit short on height and regular features. Will you love snow? Will you be little like I was, when you are little? Will you have his dark hair and grey blue eyes or my green ones?
In the beginning weeks, I reached for you and found nothing there. Then around ten weeks I felt something, awakening maybe? I am not sure of the word. It was a feeling like watching a seed first crack open. At twelve I felt colors... I dreamed colors. Reds, yellow, blues and lavender.
When I sit up, stand up, there isn't anything to show. There is nothing that yet gives away your hiding place. It's only here, now, when it is dark and quiet, when I can feel my tummy's slightly rounded firmness, where I cloak your world. It is only in this quiet hour when sometimes, deep inside, I wake up because you fluttered.
My fingers flutter back to you and I think about your hands. How they are developing, your nerves connecting, sensitivity building, the essence of you, which will choose who you become, solidifying.
I confess I am vain about my own hands. I like watching them. They are loveliest when I am holding a bit of chalk and my nail polish is coated in a dusting of purples and greens and a bit of fire red. They are the anchor of my essence, the extension and sum of all I am.
I have a thing for hands in general, so many people do extraordinary things with their's. I watch my best friend working on a broken sprinkler head, kiting up his wing or fixing my computer.... his fingers dancing across the key board to repair whatever I broke, again, with the elegance of a concert pianist. I think about his hands holding your hands.
What will you do with your hands?
I am a curvy kind of female. Flat tummy, strong legs for skiing down mountains, a bit short on height and regular features. Will you love snow? Will you be little like I was, when you are little? Will you have his dark hair and grey blue eyes or my green ones?
In the beginning weeks, I reached for you and found nothing there. Then around ten weeks I felt something, awakening maybe? I am not sure of the word. It was a feeling like watching a seed first crack open. At twelve I felt colors... I dreamed colors. Reds, yellow, blues and lavender.
When I sit up, stand up, there isn't anything to show. There is nothing that yet gives away your hiding place. It's only here, now, when it is dark and quiet, when I can feel my tummy's slightly rounded firmness, where I cloak your world. It is only in this quiet hour when sometimes, deep inside, I wake up because you fluttered.
My fingers flutter back to you and I think about your hands. How they are developing, your nerves connecting, sensitivity building, the essence of you, which will choose who you become, solidifying.
I confess I am vain about my own hands. I like watching them. They are loveliest when I am holding a bit of chalk and my nail polish is coated in a dusting of purples and greens and a bit of fire red. They are the anchor of my essence, the extension and sum of all I am.
I have a thing for hands in general, so many people do extraordinary things with their's. I watch my best friend working on a broken sprinkler head, kiting up his wing or fixing my computer.... his fingers dancing across the key board to repair whatever I broke, again, with the elegance of a concert pianist. I think about his hands holding your hands.
What will you do with your hands?
