a year of becoming a mother

What does it mean to wash the same spoon, fill the same bottle, kiss the same chin? To walk worn paths on an old wood floor like a meditation through 900 square feet of small daily tasks.

“It was written that I would love you

From the moment I opened my eyes

And the morning when I first saw you

Gave me life under calico skies”

I used to pace my days by the moon. Now I sing the same song each night & scramble eggs in the morning. A low-down place more filled with earth & the dark salty sea that formed your bones. Days are weeks are months are moments. You’ve already learned to say your own name & of course the word “no”. I’ve learned the path of the sun through our southern windows & just what to do depending on where it floats.

There’s a precision to rolling the bottle from your hands while you sleep that could only be gained with the hours we’ve swayed & sung. An art to tucking you into my chest (only the left side) before laying you into your bed.

“I will hold you for as long as you like

I’ll hold you for the rest of my life”

I lose myself daily & every so often find myself again. Sometimes when I hear the quick intake of breath before you sigh to sleep or when I see the roundness of your cheek as you look up at the sky. Sometimes when we’re apart & a camera replaces your body in my arms, weightless by comparison. When I do encounter myself, I find her so rearranged.

“I’ll hold you for as long as you like

I’ll hold you for the rest of my life

I’ll hold you for as long as you like

I’ll love you for the rest of my

For the rest of my life”

What does it mean that the span of a year was spent through little, repetitive moments of care? The accomplishment of unrelenting surrender. A continuous thread of memory and light.

Quoted song lyrics from “Calico Skies” by Paul McCartney | Images shot on Kodak & Ilford Film | Processing & Scanning by Richard Photo Lab