Madeira is a tall island draped in lush green landscapes worthy of Shaolin monks and hobbits. As my husband drives up and down roads with vertigo-inducing drops, my belly flops. I look at my hands—balled up, white-knuckled. My foot presses an imaginary brake. Sometimes I close my eyes.
At the time of writing, I have a seven-year-old son who doesn’t yet read fluently and a two-year-old son who doesn’t yet walk steadily. In our family, milestones don’t matter. Upstairs in the bedroom, following a dizzying shower, those words filled the space between the midwife and me.
For the past eleven years, home has been the place where my three still rope-anchored and wrinkly water babies had their first fill of air, screwed up eyes blindly gazing upon a brand new world, the passage from darkness to light softened by the sounds lovingly (pre)spun by
You When I was fifteen I wrote an English Essay entitled ‘A Woman’s Place is in the Home?’ I would love to read it now but it has long since gone. Written in the late eighties, all I remember of the piece is being indignant that women were