[i’ve one more day to go in journaling our trip, but i’m pausing to highlight a moment from last sunday that’s stuck close with me.]
the door scrapes open and a cross breeze catches woven sheers, sends them billowing through a bright square of window as a nanny enters our sanctuary of three.
she carries a tray of oranges with skin mottled green and gold, wedges of almost-summer on a plate. our little guy takes a couple, delight stretched across his face, and in universal four-year-old form he sucks out every last bit of juice while leaving the mangled pulp behind.
his mouth full of seeds, he looks round for a trash bin or napkin and so i hold out my hand to him. he spits those seeds into my palm without a second thought, then scampers off for the beach ball with sticky-chinned nonchalance.
and sure, our court hearing lingers two days off, and we’ve yet to be granted official approval to parent this small person. but i smile damp at that handful of orange seeds, having become, in that single act, every bit his mother.
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stop by em's place for more imperfect prose on thursdays.