east west

sleep with angels, darling.

hey there little love, come with me. we'll go outside and learn what anticipation looks like. we'll watch those heavy-laden clouds tumble over the west hills. look around - the leaves are still, quiet, preparing. the robins are singing like mad, getting the word out, find cover find cover it's almost too late find cover. we'll feel this storm come in from the pacific, wonder where it has travelled and what stories it's already laid down. breathe in, little love, do you feel that? tangible, sticky, your mother is emotionally bound to this kind of humidity - a bind which you'll never understand if we stay put too much longer. you need to feel this, you need to know this, you need to close your eyes and sense the storm coming, glory in it, revel in it, wait for it.

we come inside, an indicator that your mother is concerned what the neighbors will think if they see a diapered child outside during a thunderstorm. practicality has trumped romance. but we've got these 85 year old lead-glass windows, and they do shake with the wind, don't they?

posted by jessica @ 8:32 PM