18-10-26
October 26, 2018 Front porch (or is it the back porch?) of Morgan's house. I'm doing something age appropriate: rocking a baby and talking to him about the colors of the sky and the bay, and how they are both nearly the same gray today. I am gently stroking his chest with the tips of my fingers, in slow, rhythmic massage. A butterfly (who knew they flew up to second- story porches?) surprises me, interrupting my monologue about the shrimp boat and the gulls and the crane. Somewhere in all that, I feel the tips of fingers move on my hand, mimicking the motion of my hand on his. I know what the skeptics would say, so I just won't invite them to my party. It felt like he was loving me back, and no one is going to tell me any different. 😘