In the shank of the evening I hold her. Her feathered round head presses into my arm.
On the children’s shelf behind Noah’s Ark and a red roofed cottage, a plastic clock ticks. Max’s sweet voice lilts up the stairs, ‘ei ni meini mini mo’.
Music from his DVD rises and fades.
Next door a baby is crying.
Her mouth moves busily on my breast. Her eyelids are closed. She squirms a little and flings back her head, asleep.
Everything that’s good in the world lives in this moment.
Downstairs, plastic falls on wood.
Outside a car glides by.