Infant Inks

My mother has two infant pictures of me. She tells me I didn’t smile much but I had bright eyes and strong fingers. I remember that first picture.The one outside, in the spring sun and grass. I sat up on a rug, back straight but with a steady say, one foot nuzzled in the warmth of each hooked knee. To me, this world was the sea, splashing the green sea foam grass over the sides of my rug, a deck of rough woolen wood. I knew that if I stood I’d have to battle my stormy equilibrium, to gather my sea legs if I hoped to not tumble off the gangplank and splash back into the grass. I was content to watch the sun glint low over the fish scales of black ants, to watch my parents sail into the deeper water, circling with me as their anchor. But most importantly I listened to the wind and the comfort in his voice as he fished for the shiver in my spine.

Image: Sabin Boykinov

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Published by

HC

I hail from the sunny southwest. I wait, unkempt and unbidden.

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