Soon

A short story.

Soon it will be summer. Even though the heat feels oppressive already. Soon we will be craving the coolness of salty waves licking our ankles. The sweet relief of skin soaked in ocean. And maybe by then, she will be sleeping through.

Because soon, the silence of the night will be shattered by her cries. The few hours of sleep I’ve banked will be lost to the morning. She will wake and soon, it will be time to jump into action. Feed her. Soothe her. Change her. All the while trying to tear myself in two so that I can share myself with her brother. I hope he knows that soon I will have more time for him. I’m already making a list in my head of all the things we can do together. Just us two.

But for now, she is clawing at my legs, stretching towards me with open arms. Soon I will bend down and give her a cuddle. Just as soon as my eggs are done. And I’ve thrown on another load of laundry. Had a shower. Or maybe I could do those things later because soon, she won’t be reaching for me. Soon she will be independent, have her own friends, walk away from me without glancing back. Soon it will be me having to ask for a cuddle, my arms reaching towards her like a question.

Maybe not today, but soon I will have to toss out the old baby clothes that no longer fit. I will stare at them in my hands and wonder where that tiny human has gone. Only realising as I glance up through foggy tears that she is still sitting in front of me, for now anyway. But soon, she will be walking, talking—then talking back. Her gurgles and giggles will become words and sentences and stories I can’t keep up with. Soon, I’m sure, I won’t be able to keep her quiet.

Soon her downy hair will grow thick and long. I’ll pull it back into a ponytail, or maybe braids. I’ll have to learn how to do that. And soon she will be tying her own shoelaces, walking in front of me rather than clutching my hand at my side.

I know that soon the years will pass. At first slowly, then with exhaustive pace. And soon I will find myself alone swaying in the dark, but this time, there will be no baby in my arms. Because soon she will sleep through. She will become her own person. The invisible thread that tethers us together will be severed. Slowly, but surely.

But for now, as I lie in the dark and wait for her cries to pierce the night, I allow myself to dream of summer. It will be here soon. And maybe by then I’ll find a moment to breathe a little more deeply once again. Even though I know that soon, I’ll miss these moments. Right now they feel long, tiresome, endless sometimes. But soon, they will become mere memories.

And soon, she will wake up. Too soon.