The wax-melting summer

On Motherhood: The seconds ticking against my pulse, you’ve made the present mine

It was June, and on a day full of promise, you turned eleven months. The air was heavy, like hands resting on our shoulders. Hot and thick, you could see a creeping wetness floating just above the surface of the river. My hair stuck to my face and my neck and my shoulders. Your cheeks were sun-warmed, glowing like rose petals. We dipped our toes into th…