La Mesa de Trabajo

So here I am, at la mesa de trabajo, contemplating my sleeping wonder. He hears my thoughts. He raises a hand into the air, eyes closed, and holds it there, stretching the material of his little onesie, as if saying, "I am growing faster than you can blink, mom." Or, perhaps he is sending a message to the universe. Something grand. Something only babies are capable of doing. "We must speed up the intervention plan. They're destroying our planet future." Or perhaps, the thought is simply, "booby."

My days are filled with long stretches of looking into tiny blue eyes, wondering if they'll change color. When my man comes home, I am shocked at how huge his eyes are, and then I realize my comparison. I feel as if nothing gets accomplished and yet each day is a wonder. I idolize this small creatura who is turning into a baby.

Today I took a walk through my neighborhood. I passed a number of people. A man with swarthy, pocked skin and baggy clothes clinging to his plastic bag as if I might grab it from him. As he walked past, he retrieved a plastic tube of mustard from the bag, past anticipating his lunch in the park. Further ahead, three young latinas with the mark of Ash Wednesday across their foreheads walked toward me. They smiled at my stroller. I passed two other lone men who glanced through me like people in New York. They look into your eye, but only for a smooth moment that is just one click of a panoramic intake, no more, no less.

The king has cried. I must depart this ramble.