In the blue morning light, the baby reaches for her knees, stretches her body against star-patterned sheets, her eyes like silver moons across moving water, unselfconscious vowels breaking into laughter and smiles freely given and not earned; I could learn how to hold and be held in these arms outstretched.
Elanur Williams writes from New York City, where she lives with her husband and daughter.
Our apartment was full of books and vanilla candles with wooden wicks that burned deep into the evening. He made me coffee dashed with Baileys and we dreamed of having children. If we have a son, I said, we’ll go to the sea. If we have a daughter, the mountains.
Elanur Williams is an Adult Basic Education Teacher at an adult learning center in the Bronx. Previously, she taught at an elementary school. In her spare time, she enjoys reading and writing poetry. She met her husband in Dublin, Ireland, while completing her M.Phil. in Children’s Literature at Trinity College Dublin. They live in New York with their daughter.