Sunday, February 12, 2012

The Middle One

I had my hands on her all day. My arms carried her through the throngs of New Yorkers on subway platforms, in train cars, on sidewalks and along theater aisles. We floated past, into and beyond the fashion elite, dressed like it was the mating day of the millennium at Lincoln Center (what a boon! We thought we were going to the NYCB and we dove headlong into fashion week!). "Mama! That man looks like a beautiful lady!"

Her tiny hand tucked into mine as she whispered "mama!" (body curled intricately into her red velvet orchestra seat) "Are the REAL!? Are the even breathing?!" Ethereal dancers swam across the stage and into her mercurial mind. "Mama! It sounds like the music is describing EVERYTHING!". This time, eyes closed as Patti Lu Pone exhilarated every cell in her body with. That. Voice.

A million octopus tendrils feeding her ravenous mouth shrimps as big as her feet and a caesar salad on a plate the size of her whole head... "Mama! This is goooood!"

On the downtown 1 train, crowded like yes, a sardine can, her impossibly tiny face looked straight up at me and said: "I feel like a mushroom".

It started in my toes and as the knowledge grew and expanded up into my knee caps, femurs, pelvis, intestines, lungs, jugulars and frontal cortex; I knew. I know. That I will do anything, everything for this child.

"Mama! This whole day feels like a vacation!"

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