I don’t want to forget the good days.
The days Ibraheem lays on his mat swatting at the crinkly wings of the bees that hang overhead and gives me gummy smiles when he notices me watching him as I run and run to Pandora and feel strong and happy and know, nowhere else I need to be. And I look outside at the water and the trees and the sun and the boats sailing past, better than a resort, damn it.
I want to remember the good days.
The days I have slept six hours and had the moments of calm to watch Ibraheem marvel at the uncurling and recurling of his fist and then the curve of his toe. And I smear avocado on toast and plop a scrambled egg on top with spicy ketchup and lettuce and sit down on the floor and I want to remember the ten minutes it takes to eat the sandwich I have been eating daily for over a month and drink my tea and talk to my baby in the sunlight. I am grateful.
I want to keep the good nights.
When Ibraheem’s hair still smells like shampoo and he stays in his swaddle and drinks all his milk and looks at me in the darkened room through eyes that are gummed shut and he struggles to open them but falls back asleep sighing on my neck.
Those mornings when he wakes up before I do and I walk into his room, slower than I need to so I can hear his cooing to the fan and the ceiling for just a few seconds more and that smile he smiles upon seeing me walk in that lights up the whole damn universe.
And he is old enough that his hands are always outstretched and small enough that his legs are still bent frog like and I have never, never known love like this ever before.