"The Almost Child" by Jaz HurfordIt is no secret I miss you. At night, my mind draws pictures of you as a baby to find sleep. Crisp sunlight comes and I recall the images while your daddy and I lie there, not yet full of morning air. Giggle at the very joy of you; you all soft footed, all warm milk. He often indulges me a while, though his lips remain squeezed together in passionless embrace.
When you come to visit, I fry meat. Ordinarily, your father abhors such practice; normal mealtimes for us consist of bowls of lentils, of thanking the Lord. I lay three places at the table even in your absence, as though the silent silverware may summon sudden knock at the door. You always ring the telephone to announce arrival, though I gave you a key when you were just shy of ten years old. It’s open, I holler loudly, as I shake water from the boiled vegetables. And you step through, fresher than the new-found day. You uncork the wine; bottled the very year you were made. I plate our food as my head swills and spits out various greetings. Each one falters on my lower lip, tastes inadequate, somehow. Try as I might, I never have the words for you. Thankfully, it seems age has weathered both our tongues. We enjoy the food without exchange. The silence is a gift inherited from him; the power to remain quiet even in uncomfortable places. But I know if conversation were possible, you’d tell me you’re doing well. New job. Perhaps a child of your own on the way.
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