You’ve been out—in my arms—as long as you were inside.
You sit on my lap, overtired, teething and fussing. Your bottom lip juts out. Your baby feelings are hurt. You noise and trill, twisting away from me until something catches your eye.
Then, very carefully, you brush your skinny-fat fingertips against the ring I wear on my forefinger.
The ring is hard and shiny and strange.
Your fingers push delicately. Your dark eyes half-narrow as you focus through long, long lashes. I’ve never seen you so determined.
In Athens, it got so hot the power went out across the city. It became very still, the humidity settling and creeping into open windows like a fog.
We ate unfamiliar food on a rooftop in the shade, and then walked next door to a little jewelry store. In the dim light from the open doorway, I found a small white gold ring with four tiny little diamonds.
“That one?” I implored, brushing hips against my husband’s.
It was $70, and he nodded and smiled and said, “If you want it.”
I slipped it on my finger and played with it as we rode in a cab through the congested streets in the hot city with no power.
I smile at you, my little one. I blow the hair off your forehead as you grip my finger and pull the ring into your mouth. You’re growing one little tooth and it aches. It feels better when you cram your fingers and your toys—and my ring—against the swollen gum.
I love you.
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