WRITTEN. This kind of morning.
This quiet kind of morning. Wet streets, green shadows, grey light. This kind of June breathe. The silence. The timelessness. Your soft breathing sounds. You, sleeping over the couch. Our living room. Nothingness.
This kind of Monday. Rainy Sunday, yesterday. The time has stopped. The outside world, disappeared. You and me. And nothingness.
The atmosphere that I have dreamed when I decided to bring you to this world.
You, my piece of cotton. Sometimes I still don't believe you are real. I forget you transformed me into a mother. I look at you and wonder if it was truly me the one who did it. I made you. I brought you. Now, I look after you.
The last days were happy but full. Grandpa was here, aunt and uncle too... They came from far away to see you. A lot of walks through the neighborhood. A lot of sound from the city entering through your ears. You were always kind and quiet. Being peaceful in the arms of others. Being the cute little cloud they came to meet.
But it made you tired, I know. You were exhausted and you let me know. In the night it was getting harder to fall asleep. Therefore, today we do nothing. Yesterday we did nothing. Because you deserve the silence. You deserve the emptiness. You deserve the sound of the rain falling, making you relaxed. You deserve the Sunday and the Monday so you can sleep and dream and float while papa and me watch you to exist.
It is what I want. This kind of life.
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