Sleepy head by Maria E. FitzGerald

I watch her belly breath rise and fall.  Her soft profile succumbs as her energy disperses like a dandelion blown in summer; repairing the pieces that require mending, allowing others to become stronger.  Open palms rest as they face the sky, ready to accept whatever comes their way.  A black and white clothed friend tucked beneath the crook of your arm receives shelter and warmth. Will this alliance always be enough for you?

The sweat on her brow fuses with fine strawberry hair like tangled flowers in a summer border.  Her sweet salty scent tickles my nose inviting me to be greedy, an innocent gesture to help ensure I will never forget; just as one cannot forget the seized scent of a summer rose or the first vapour of pine released from a plastic bottle to clean a grazed knee. Perfectly pursed lips quiver allowing the correct amount of oxygen in and out.  A well hidden nerve flickers from deep behind your windows, and I wonder who or what whispers sweet words and stories to you. Will you tell me?

The absorbent nappy that surrounds you ensures that you will wake in comfort and you will smile again when you recognise the colourful cartoon. An unexpected smile crawls across your smooth round cheeks reaching its peak at the spot we call Beauty. Envious, I cannot nor should I, know what causes this momentary playfulness. What brings you such joy in your sleepy head?

The clock alongside measures its time; but not ours.  Our time is measured by the beating of our hearts, the cold fresh air that enters and the warm stale air that exits.  The first stirrings of your sleeping body begin. Once tired limbs now revived stretch gently by your sides, your rested feet preparing to leap again. The cotton beneath squirms as the pressure of us shifts, allowing it to relax in its new found freedom; freedom it must now become accustomed to once again. Does the Tree from which it was born ache to touch its fruit just as I do?

A smile, a scent of stale breath, our playful reunion and a look in the eye that tells me all I need to know. This is our place, a place in our time; a simple wrinkle in the fabric of our day, the place where we both rely on each other’s breath. Tell me will you always return to this place?

Maria E.FitzGerald is a writer and lives with her husband, daughter and Golden Retrievers in Lismore, Co. Waterford, Ireland. Maria studied French at college and is a self-confessed Francophile! After several years living in the cosmopolitan city of Brussels, she now enjoys the slower pace of life in the countryside. She is currently working on a collection of short stories and is half-way through a children’s novel, which makes her very happy indeed! Twitter: @mariaebelle

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