anty-stock

once, in first or second grade, i spoke to emily.  it must not have been a very deep conversation--how deep can seven-year olds get?--because i don't really remember what each of us said.  i just remember emily's wild blonde hair and long eyelashes; the explosion of freckles across her face.  emily lived down the street, but she lived far away enough to be on the stop before mine, so we never had a chance to speak.  or maybe i just didn't want to talk to her.  i don't know. now, here's the thing.  emily, you still live down the street from me.  you have a daughter--angela-

And this is where you're supposed to fit: It's six thirty-eight in the morning and this is where we are supposed to wake up with you wrapped in my arms and the world wrapped in the pale blues of early morning light. Somewhere between the first flutter of my eyelids and the first flutter of our hearts I am supposed to be kiss-whispering "hellobeautiful"s and "riseandshine,starshine"s into the skin of your shoulder and the scent of your neck, and your spine is supposed to be against my chest and my hands are supposed to be on your hips and we are supposed to fit as perfectly as a pair of parentheses. It is six thirty-eight and as I am waking u