Champagne mangoes and a peeled black plum

I keep meaning to update Annie’s month-by-month journal but I get distracted. She’s messing with the records, chewing My Bloody Valentine and tonguing the plastic on Hadyn. The pollen on my laptop is a thin film of green which comes off on my fingertips and only QWERTY is black again. I’m thinking of the pool and how Annie was frightened yesterday, clinging like a monkey to my neck, chomping down on my shoulder with her two new teeth in a paroxysm of terror. Dan suggested she’s been too long out of the womb. Cath, in her forties after two children, has a better body than I do. Audrey cannonballed in a red life-jacket that looked actually stylish. It resembled a shrug with off-the-shoulder armbands. We used to call them waterwings but the waterbabies claimed they were only distantly related to water beetles. The pollen is sweeping the porch in green surf. I’d like to be a translator but my French is malheureux. Kate’s new baby may be named Olympia, which makes me worry that she’ll be tall like her parents. I love the supermarket where I select the prettiest local sweet potatoes and the greenest green beans. The champange mangoes are tangier and sweeter, the demibaguette in the stroller is proportional and shoppers coo. I liked feeding the baby a peeled black plum, her tiny mouth sucking on the pit that I held in my fingers.

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