(Photo of mother and son in a very old mirror, in India, with a too-hot flash. Explain to me why I like it so much.)
This morning you smiled right into my eyes for the first time; one of those big gummy smiles with slightly squinched up eyes. Heartbreaking stuff, my boy. I felt another small piece of my insides being filed away in a tiny box with a label. "Love for Solo's smile," it says, in block letters and permanent marker.
(Sometimes I imagine that there is a mosaic of sorts, inside me, and all these little bits are the bits that are devoted to small parts of my loved ones. Leafy's lips; a blue triangle, Kid A's eyes; a square piece of a green plate, YaYa's edible nose; one of those dented glass marbles that you might find in a fish tank. The smell of Chinua's neck; a small, perfect ruby. These form the most beautiful landscape, right in the center of me.)
But you, Solo. I don't have much to say. You turned a month old a couple of days ago, and we celebrated by cuddling and having milk, just like we celebrate every day. This time around, I am amazed mostly by how physical this all is. You are held and burped and nursed and kissed. And the feelings I have for you are linked irrevocably to your smell, your sounds, the way you nuzzle your head back and forth when you are looking for me. I'm so tired, sometimes, in the middle of the night. I mean, really, it's a nice time to sleep. And there you are, grunting and squeaking and wanting milk. Argh. But then I pick you up and your head is by my cheek and your hair is so soft, and I'd say that I would stay up all night with you every night, if I could.
I'd say that, if only your brothers and sister wouldn't insist on waking up at such a horrific hour.
I love you, Solo. We all do.
(Letters galore around here! But there are milestones happening, just passing us by! MILESTONES! So pardon the letters.)