I really want a cigarette right now. Its been 11 months. Was that what did it? Quitting the weed? The things we did for fun…removed, purposefully. By me. Us?
But it’s not new, only now, there’s nowhere to hide. He sees, he hears. Understands?
There’s one on the table. Not my brand. But it’s there, calling me. I won’t, of course.Breastfeeding & nicotine don’t mix. But I want to.
It’s not new post-rings. That was meant to change it all, no? A new start; rewinding to the beginning. Rewind to find the now that we saw in the then. What happened?
He’d smell it. Even if it didn’t make its poisonous way through to the milk, he’d smell it, my little boy. And Mummies dont smell of smoke. Coffee time.
The music’s dimmer now. In the then, could we have foreseen the quiet of the now. Was it the rhythm helping to keep the pulse?
A wine, then. That’s not the same. That wouldn’t harm him; would be ok. Except it wouldn’t, really. I know that, and I don’t. Won’t. But why?… for You or Him? Doubts creeping in today.
My feet used to be me. Spontaneous. Waltz, jive. Samba: Always on the beat. Laughter. Sadness. Dance. Sing. Move to the music sound. Baby’s learning to breakdance; he’s uninhibited and free.
I leave the cigarette and go. turn on the computer and type. Baby on my chest. Sleeping. Oblivious. Or aware of it all?
I want the music back.