But nothing happened. Not a sound.

Early mornings are my time with the quiet Cricket. Sparrow lays next to me, clutching my arm, sucking down milk while we wait suspended in our hot bubble of a room. The fan gives us a sleepy reprieve even though it's too loud and harsh. It feels so good to get any air at all. I count the months every morning, as if they'd suddenly be different. I feel some of the anticipation of opening a present. I feel a creeping horror when I imagine Sparrow's heartbreak, the short space of my arms already filled, walking around jiggling a warm lump instead of being able to sit and talk, the aches of lying on my side all night, the bleary rapid aging of never sleeping, the exhaustion that leeches my energy so I'm no good to anyone, brainless, charmless, doughy, empty. I guess not having friends this time will make it easier. I remember the condemnatory words, hum them in isolation, and it burns. But then I ask myself if I want to be bullied, if I want to be controlled, if I could have just snapped my fingers and gotten over it, easy hurdle, right? What's another one? Last night Sparrow smashed her bottle in my face when she lay down next to me and I wailed "Why did you hurt me?" Please don't hurt me!" and she sobbed and sobbed with her huge elephant tears. She has such a tender heart, like I do, and I think I scared her. Afterwards I comforted her and told her, it's okay, it's okay. I made basil pasta with vegetables and we ate dinner together, said our prayer, listened to the Christine Jessop podcast (love!), Jon told me about talking to his parents and the eternal gulf. We will each always think it's the other's fault. Jon says he needs to learn how to speak a different language; I think that it doesn't matter what language you speak if no one believes you have anything worthwhile to say.