By Sobia Ali
Everyday, I wait till your father has gone out to work, before I come into your room to wake you up. He does not like my attention being diverted when he is at home. I think he is a little jealous of you. Or perhaps of me, that I am going to be with you all day when he has to be away. You know otherwise he is absolutely devoted to you, and won’t ever like to part from you.
I open the door slowly, lest I startle you. You lay there on the dainty curtained bed, quite lost under the flurry pink bed sheets and blankets. For a moment I panic that you are not there. That they were right, those women in white uniforms. Then a soft pink little hand peeps out, a small plump foot jumps out of all that velvety pile. And I almost laugh out loud when I see you hacking away at coverlet in anger to remove it from your face. I remove it for you, suddenly impatient to see your milky, moon face, haloed in curly shiny black hair.
I give my finger to you to hold and take to your mouth. You suck and bite it with small uneven gummy gums. I tickle your belly, kiss your hands and feet, then lift you unto my lap. I giggle as your thin lips curl around my nipple and your red busy tongue lap up the milk, gulping, slurping. How I love to suckle you, baby.