Knitted hat pulled tightly over still-damp hair, she pushes her hands deeper into the pockets of her quilted bomber jacket.
Outside, the landscape is an underpainting: roughed-in rectangles of brick and mortar, grey stripes of the avenue beyond the subway line. The intention is there, but the details are still lacking - at least, for a few more weeks.
She lets out the breath she was holding beneath the thin surgical mask.
Saying goodbye was never easy, even when she knew it was coming.
I need jazz when I feel like this. This morning it’s Coltrane, My Favorite Things. I slept like shit last night, with baby’s head in my armpit or pushing into my spine. I roll away and she gives chase. What a charming game we play. I leave her in bed still asleep and put on every layer I have. A warm kiss from Daddy sends me out into snow. My knit cap accumulates flurries to melt and drip down my forehead on the train. I’m grumpy, sleepy, guilty, and wondering if any decision I make for that child is good. I turn up Coltrane and quiet myself for the little while I get to spend underground.
Will she be happy to see me? How long must her hair have grown? How can I explain myself? What do I want to say to her now? Will she understand? Will she forgive? And what if she doesn’t show up? How does a father handle tears these days?
"Strangers Together"
Strangers together
Huddled up on the A-Line
A brief connection
“Morning Vibe”:
Knitted hat pulled tightly over still-damp hair, she pushes her hands deeper into the pockets of her quilted bomber jacket.
Outside, the landscape is an underpainting: roughed-in rectangles of brick and mortar, grey stripes of the avenue beyond the subway line. The intention is there, but the details are still lacking - at least, for a few more weeks.
She lets out the breath she was holding beneath the thin surgical mask.
Saying goodbye was never easy, even when she knew it was coming.
“Lost in Sounds”
I need jazz when I feel like this. This morning it’s Coltrane, My Favorite Things. I slept like shit last night, with baby’s head in my armpit or pushing into my spine. I roll away and she gives chase. What a charming game we play. I leave her in bed still asleep and put on every layer I have. A warm kiss from Daddy sends me out into snow. My knit cap accumulates flurries to melt and drip down my forehead on the train. I’m grumpy, sleepy, guilty, and wondering if any decision I make for that child is good. I turn up Coltrane and quiet myself for the little while I get to spend underground.
“Asleep nodding to the rhythm of life”
Will she be happy to see me? How long must her hair have grown? How can I explain myself? What do I want to say to her now? Will she understand? Will she forgive? And what if she doesn’t show up? How does a father handle tears these days?
Thank you for the post, Nishant. Your work inspires!
Enough people on wooden legs, get over yourself and start drawing hands and feet- you are missing an opportunity to enrich their personalities!