Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:
It was a long day for the two of us (the baby, me) while you had all but disappeared in the big city (which offers you good work). You haven’t come home yet when I put our baby to bed in the pastoral inn where we’re staying. The mood of my evening conversation with its director about bright and dark church interiors settles like a silk cloth over the sight that holds my attention: the closing of our tired baby’s eye. From above I observe this silent movement, the way the fan of long lashes along the edge of the lid’s half-moon sinks in a single smooth arc, bobs up again, then a second time with less amplitude, and then remains closed (truly a gate which — inaudibly, but with great force — falls into its lock). Light and dark, set apart by no more than this membrane of delicate skin, a symbol I cannot resist, because it has no intention of being that.