little one

Each day holds a thousand profound moments, all of them cheapened by description.
(I once thought that parents talked about children because their world had so imperceptibly narrowed that it was the only thing they could talk about. In a sense that still holds. My world has narrowed. Beautifully. Perfectly.)

I am moved to tears when I turn from some distraction and find his dark blue eyes looking intently at my face. As if he's waiting for me to see him. When he sees me see him, his own face lights in the purest, gummiest grin. I sit, overcome, thinking -- I am wasting my time on the pathetic and temporal when before me is eternity.


midsommar igen

Another Midsummer passed. The lupin and oak leaves drying brown on the maypoles. A hazy heat has overtaken early July, and I find myself wanting to retreat into the coolness of the forest more than finding a patch of beachsand at the lake. Poor little Max doesn't take to the heat so well, sweating in his little diaper while trying to sleep under the trees.
Tonight was a perfect summer night; grilling with Martin's parents on the cool grass -- steak, potato salad, greens picked from our garden with dill and lemon. Rhubarb lemonade and watermelon slices. Then perfectly ripened local strawberries, cream and coffee. We decided to take the "long" route home from Myresjö -- following small roads through old growth forests with mossed, gnarly oaks (my favourites), past small farms carved out of rocky, forested hills, small lakes, and numerous old homes and summer cottages.

It was the kind of drive that got us "lost" after two or three turns. Windows down, summer air smelling of farm, wildflowers and deep woods untouched by sunshine. Winding dirt roads branching off here and there. Just picking whichever "feels" best. We passed an old man on his putt-putt moped, dressed in tourist shorts and puffing on a cigar. Enjoying an evening drive through the oaks. Later, after innumerable turns and random choices, we passed him again on a different road. He had finished his cigar.

It's the kind of evening that makes me feel unburdened. Refreshed, purified somehow. The wind in my hair and the baby asleep in the backseat as we pass the spot Martin proposed to me five years ago. Life. Is good.