i like to trace your face,
to follow the lines and shapes of your nose,
rest my palms on your cheeks,
stare at your closed eyelids.
and let my fingers outline your lips.
i love that spot, right above the center of your upper lip.
you know, that soft indent that runs from the base of your nose
and meets your lip.
its scientifically called the philtrum, i believe.
but when i was just little girl, my mum told me
it was where the angel kissed me
right before i was born,
and that was her mark left on me.
i was tracing that part of your face that night.
you remember that night, dont you?
when we were wrapped up in a blanket
on my back patio,
squished onto a white wicker loveseat?
we could both barely fit since we were lying down.
it was the last days of summer,
you could feel in the breezewarm air,
but a breeze with a cool underside would wrap around us.
you could feel a lot in that breeze.
memories, love, a past, a future.
and hanging above us were windchimes.
the breeze would blow and the
the chimes performed for us.
it was the first night i fell asleep in your arms.
i never really told you,
but it was just like when i was a baby.
i dont remember it of course, but
i have seen home videos,
and my mum has painted the picture for me
if not a thousand times.
this tiny infant girl,
bundled up in blankets and layers of clothing,
and my mum, she would
lay me in this old red wooden wagon.
it was not really red, the paint was old and faded and chipped.
and she'd place the wagon on the patio
right under the chimes.
except they were never windchimes playing their music, to me at least.
she'd always say when the windchimes were being blown,
"listen to the angels sing."
that one summer night, bundled up with you,
i heard the angels sing like they never did before.
god, did they sing me the most beautiful lullaby.