Apprehension

27 09 2009

It’s Sunday night. The sun is slipping down behind the trees, leaving behind a lavender and orange wake. The crickets and tree frogs have started chirping, and a slight breeze tickles the leaves on the giant oaks as it sweeps the crisp night-time air through my open window. I’m sitting on the couch with a sleeping baby on my lap. Her little belly rises and falls slowly. Her mouth is relaxed into a little, crooked pout. Her impossibly long lashes brush her cheeks. The tv is off. There is no music. Just the quiet and chirping and breeze and the occasional car rushing down the street in front of our home — a symphony by John Cage. I could get addicted to this idyllic world, but somewhere in my chest is a hard pit that rises up to tighten my throat. It ruins this moment. In only 12 hours I’ll be driving to daycare, ready to leave my baby with someone else. And suddenly the noise comes crashing down into my head and my life seems like an impossible situation.

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