Tears have a way of retreating and raining down the inside of your body, I soon discovered. Too soon. And now I`m not speaking of the extreme type of tears, doused in trauma and blood, but the softer, shakier type, the ones you discover inside yourself upon having children.
He was born two weeks early. A mewling piglet, a red and blue baby dumpling suckling like a pro from the start.
And last night, twenty years on, he held a banquet for eighteen friends and loved ones. The room decked in red and white and silver candle holders. Smiles and cheers and love and music. A red headed boy working with his blonde sidekick to plate up ambrosia, the menu planned a week in advance and tested on family members.
My fork melts into the hare pie prepared so precisely. A bit of my heart starts leaking. The taste of beetroot coulis makes my palate bleed. Black and white chocolate mousse ice cream, cut into delicate wheels of delight, makes me choke on tears. E tempu pra voce ko me sa tu a vida. The taste of my child is within.
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