He wakes up early, like me.

Baby Girl used to wake up early too. Even in the midst of PPD I liked that. It meant I could exist outside of judgment, because she loved me, she looked up at me and she loved me, and I was not the fucked mess to her I was to everyone who mattered. The mirrors, too, were darker at four am.

She loved me so much.

It was horrible, but then, everything was, then. At least it was quiet.

Everything was so quiet.

These early mornings I spend holding her little brother, try and speak soothingly. I play the fireplace on the TV and he conks out. Then I get to write.

Before, with Baby Girl, I’d watch Say Yes to the Dress, and I’d drink, and I wouldn’t think at all. I remember that part. A lot of that time is this strange, almost acidic static. My memories taste like sour milk, and go down about the same way. Similarly, too, some part of me grabs out, yells “STOP!” when I stray too close.

Normally, I listen.

This morning he wouldn’t get back to sleep. He’s been teething, and for him that means fussiness, a kind of shimmering hyperactivity, and he absolutely cannot stop smacking his lips and chewing on his tongue. Even at four AM it is cute as shit to me, and I cackle very quietly, imitating him.

I never did that with her. I don’t remember what she did while teething. I’m sure I didn’t have the same reaction.

It’s like I wasn’t there. My soul spent that time clinging to the top, and she was below, smacking her lips, being cute, and I didn’t even smile.

Fuck.