You can't get comfortable. We suspect teeth are making their way through, an oddly wishful sort of thinking. You find refugee in your father's arms. You seek his voice, stay momentarily peaceful against his chest.
At first I enjoy the reprieve, the lightness of limbs only responsible for their own weight, but quickly, so quickly, I begin to worry. You will come back to me, won't you? You will be all mine again once more?
Your father offers you bits of food: spinach, sweet potatoes, forbidden yogurt. He is already representing a larger world, one beyond my arms, beyond my breast. This is where six months will bring you. Half way around the sun, your own arms stripped tan. Old ladies ask to hold you, at libraries, in the church lobby. They tire in moments from the weight of your perfect density. I feel that I still do not know you, that you are full of secrets. I want your mysteries to be revealed. I want nothing to change. Meanwhile, you make time race. Meanwhile, you make the days stretch on and on and on.