Fiarene-Art

I remembered the afternoon I called you, curled on my bed with someone's good book in my palm, nestled softly in the waning light and under my gently roaming fingers the baby moved – not to my hand-touch, but inside, an insistent flutter, not like the swiftly beating heart on the doctor's monitor, not like the slow appearance of a plus-sign on a drugstore test. I called you, my gently rolling daughter's mother's mother. I called you like the woman standing at my back while I held the kite string on a pushy spring day, the diagonal shape so far above us I could only feel the jerk of the cord around my fingers, holding us t