Portrait
She is not abstract:
blond-brown hair
blue-grey eyes
almond-coloured rosewood-scented skin.
She has never been very complicated:
crying comes easy
she can laugh at herself
love is her favourite emotion.
With a bic blue pen she seeks only to change the world
in a page and a half during the twenty minutes that her baby sleeps.
She sits in the sunroom with her eyes half-closed
full-breasted and hip-burdened
unshowered and unashamed
uninformed of the latest movies and unaware of the new restaurants
avoiding themes of domestication
and words that rhyme with mother.
“Beauty is my child’s face.”*
Is there a more perfect sight than the face of a beloved child? Is there a more perfect feeling than stroking the softness of their skin? Is there a more perfect smell than inhaling their sweet scent as you envelope them in a tight embrace? These are some of the intoxicating wonders of motherhood. How I love to dwell on my child’s exquisite features, but no matter how long or how intently I gaze, the image is always changing. It is the nature of childhood.
* © from 'Being Mummy' by Anne‑marie Taplin, published April 2007