Dear Thisbe. Sweet Thisbe. Little love duck. Mommy had a meltdown yesterday because you wouldn't latch on and the syringe wouldn't work and you were screaming and I couldn't tell if the wet drops falling all over my belly were your tears or my tears or milk.
Today is sunny again and the cicadas are churning up their one note drone outside the screen door. You're wearing Aunt Martha's preemie sleeper gown which thankfully has little gloves to cover your fingers. Your nails are long and we need to cut them...but this terrifies us so we continue to say we'll do it tomorrow. Some morning we'll wake up and you'll have wolverine scratches tattooed across your cheeks and we'll feel very guilty.
Without sleep, the world is alternately beautiful and unforgiving. Even when you're not hungry, you love to suck, especially on my finger. You open your blue eyes wide and take in the ceiling fan or the bedside lamp or our faces. There are tiny bits of dry, white skin around your eyes that keep peeling off and your belly button is a round nub of scab.
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