wild waters.

rituals of love and liberation.

On Friday afternoon I sat in the sunniest spot in the apartment, a child’s legs entangled with mine, a white blanket caught between us. Silvery strains of a children’s public television program played on a struggling old laptop while I tried my best to work on another. It was the fifth day the week that I was attempting to work with a sick child curled next to me. I rubbed their feet absent-mindedly, recalling the days of typing with one hand while I balanced this child, a baby, on my chest, rubbing circles on their back, feeling our breath sync up, their head get heavy, their cheek settle warm and soft in the crook of my neck.

When I was pregnant with this child, James and I struggled briefly to choose a name. When I’d opened the tiny notebook where we’d previously scribbled could-be names of could-be children, what we’d written inside struck me as ridiculous. I couldn’t remember even considering some of the names. None of them, I was certain, would do.

We started a fresh list.