Your Last Night

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You were born here.

I birthed you; arching, panting, scooping, gathering ourselves together here, in this space.

Tonight will be our last night here. You will not remember these two first years of your life. I will drive by here in years to come to show you the bay window behind which you took your first newborn breaths.

You fell asleep restless at half past eight, 26 months having now passed and with so many words, so much to say that you stumble over yourself. You cannot wait to join your sister and I in all that we do.

‘LIFT ME UUUUP’ you command, demand, every time we leave a room. You have to open the door, turn the key, press the button and most recently, ‘I want to drop Lyra at school ON MY OWN.’

The memories of this place are muddied. What I once looked on as happiness has soured in recollection. There is laughter within the haze, bucket loads of love. You won’t remember a thing.

At the new house (and who knows how long we will be there, or whether you’ll remember that) you and your sister dart about, exploring, hide-and-seek in the ample cupboard space. HOT RUNNING WATER AND NO F*CKING LEAK IN MY BEDROOM. Four years of Brighton seafront have been enough for me.

Staring at the space in which you became.. became.. your own little person though. A little being with a life expectancy of a century. A memory of a blog started, staring at a space in this room.. Every fragment of memory lingering.. will it all just dispel when we leave?

Will I remember all this a little bit less? Clutching to photographs, pining over video recordings lost with my laptop?

This time has been mad, but it’s magic. I don’t know where we’re going next, but I mourn just a little as we leave this very special place.

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