A Baby's Eyesight of A Baby's Eyesight of  the Whispering Spirit,the Whispering Spirit,
Seeking its KindsSeeking its Kinds The days that the master bedroom window pictured the rear yard tree dressed in a cloak
of autumn leaves. I headed along the oor-through living area, toward the calling cry.
Zigzagged through the night hall, doorways. In my approach across the room viewing
through the white chainmail wrapped up crib, our baby's head apparent minute
protruding from bedding. Short of touching the side, I paused. Standing by and leaning
over the little bundle at the middle of a wide spreading and apparent giant mattress. her
eyes gazing at the blank ceiling, she drew in her lost regard my sixth-sense. By a process
of elimination, I said, She not hungry. She hasn't dirtied her nappy . While in xation, her
little body's revealing spirit emanating in a timber of voice, passing on a message saying,
I can't turn myself over . Both my hands moved across the high boxing guard and rolled
the little body on its tummy, remained in a brief watch over her silent and ongoing sleep,
before retrieving.
You are My Sunshine
Sibylle turning two months
When the French doors reected an interior life during the long nights, with twilight
picturing the emergent wintry brushwood and daylight deepened further the
transparent park expanse.
Behind me, I pulled the door to the sound of a suction and latching, by sight after
Martine heading toward the Audi stationary along the curb amongst lined Vehicles. She
opened the trunk placing a few overnight bags, shut and moved on toward the
passenger door. As she eased herself in the seat, behind, I strapped our baby girl into the
clown of the baby car seat cover. Moved o, the door echoing a profound sound.
Checked, with brief squints on her as I moved by the rear window. Tracking inadvertent
slips of mind, and eased myself behind the steering wheel, with a glance over my
shoulder, reading a lackadaisical expression, Where are we going to ? As my body
uncoiled, passing a glance at Martine asking, OK, whereto now ? We pulled o, in mind
retrieving from the northern border city. Antwerp draws up in an accordion the highway
trajectory into Brussels. Mapping a course nding through the intricacy, of a medieval
parish church in the middle, the relevant forking ray of streets to our community in
Forest.
Martine navigated us circling the border city road sings, onto the exit ramp and
furthering on. In a gradual imperceptible crossing, The Netherlands gained its
characteristics, and after a hour, we left the thoroughfare for a national road. on the
lookout for leading pointers, short of an approaching town, we swerved o across a
bridge. Entered suburban streets and around a corner, pull up in front of a spanking new
bungalow, waxing from the shadows of the eaves, Mieke and Tonky emerged into
daylight, and by their striking dutch accent, welcomed us.
By evening, we were crowded in a bar kept by Tonky's friends. Martine went o upstairs
putting her daughter to sleep. Returned to the crowd celebrating the couple's marriage.
Deep into the night, Mieke appeared from the little crowd of close friends. Carrying her
daughter Stey, she paused at the newel entering a circle of women in an exchange of a
few organizational ideas. Long enough idle in front of a measurable rising dogleg
stairway, to stunned me. Stey's head asleep on her mother' shoulder, owing lanky
muddled locks of blond hair. Equally, her slim gure in loose draping pajamas down her
mother's ank. An out proportioned scene, as our baby daughter betted a horizontal
length. The seven year old an apparent giant's child, with the fall of pointed feet
dangling along her mother's leg. Such as Mieke disappeared upstairs, at a moment in
time the couple left the little crowd. In a scattered and thinning crowd, in their wake
ensued rumors, Starting their honey moon in the vicinity . Left to believe in a hotel. We too
tracked our way back, to their vacant house. In a symbolic reection of a bedroom
 
You are My Sunshine
Spring of Sibylle's nine months The brushwood in the picturesque French Doors burgeoning in a hued green, and in the
passing weeks daylight crafted a pointillistic spring at clouding the trees in intensity. In
the foreground Martine spread a blanket on the oor and seated her daughter in a circle
of cushions. Sibylle in a show of controlled roll over. In long drawn out movements rose
on her hands and drew knees closer lilting her body up. Rocking, she glanced up at her
watching mother and father, saying, I'll move forward . Finding the rhythm and balance
from tumbling over, priding herself as her right hand paced forward, gleaming eyes
saying, I'm crawling .
Distinctive, the mornings incited our baby, with a restless urging for the outdoors. On
the spur of a moment, time at devoting to her, I jumped up from behind my laptop
saying, “Sunshine! Let's get you ready and go for a walk in the park.” In sweeping
movements, I picked her up. Slipped one hand after the other in sleeves. Buttoned up
her coat. My hands too few, and apprehensive to let her out of sight, give a haphazard
lapse of an instant to slip in mishaps. Furnitures and doorways, too cumbersome to
extricate her luxurious baby pram out the apartment, and wheel on bumping down
stairs. By the least fuss, I carried her on my arm o into the street.
We across the wide avenue, up the opposite curb to a gritty sidewalk spreading a wide
apron entry clearing the thickets hedge in the corner. In view of the river of grass , I
strolled the white path cutting across the greens. Passing a distant shaded island cast at
the stub rooted and alone for over a century. The oak tree shows his sprightly existence,
spreading wide hue changing leaves through dynamic and hibernating seasons. In
occurrence, I crossed a woman impersonal relationship with the baby riding in a pram –
wrapping their child to their back, African women bonded with their children, free
handed worked the elds, laundering in the lake, busy cooking, brushing clean the front
yard to their huts. Closed eyed, a little head rolls and tossed about fast asleep – in an
invisible mirror, my baby girl, in a conscious show, she turned her head, following her
leading eyesight crossing the baby in the passing. by the anchor of sight reecting
intrigue in their kind.
Climbing towards a tuft of woods on the hillside, from the monotonous sight of daily
greens, apart sustaining the pinch in my lower back, such as investing in my baby's
future. Martine before me, sprightly to the ridicule in a distant forest, exulted chatting
her daughter bringing her eyesight close to the roots clawing into the ground, pointing
out in details a mushroom.
We approached the wayside trees, spurring a miracle at elating my baby's mind. With a
owing imagination, animating the enigmatic voice invisible in the canopies, the irony of
 
see the wind swerving and winding by the branches. ”
My baby girl's lost look, glanced in-and-after my eyesight, not impressed by the
lullabying wind. in view of the upcoming intersection, inclined to bring her into a ltered
down daylight mirage over the white grit. Moved on rolling her little body reclining into
my arms. I stepped in the axis, her wide eyes reected an amazing blue sky. Canopies
from all quarters bend over clustered foliage impeding the clearing. in the shadow of a
peering light down on us. heartily inciting, aroused me step in circles. Rotating her world,
saying, “Listen to the trees whispering among themselves.” winding up a soft dancing
step, swirling, and turning dizzy, I stopped short of my rubbery legs giving way under my
body. Inventive as the days go by, my baby girl's expressive moon face, wasn't convinced
of my follies. Discovering the extent of the park, by a variety of ways home.
Where bright morning light crawls over the occulent green hedge. A live tapestry
ghosts a misty shaft through a wavy ancient glazing of the French doors. Fetching deep
along the oor boards, purporting an eye call. I turned into the light, which wards o our
crawling daughter to roll onto her padded seat, midway from facing the oor-through.
where I catch by sight in a shade of light her speaking expression, This is boring staying
home, I want to go out there, exploring the world ? Succinct that craving air, of brief
exultation crossing her kind in the park. Stunned, I asked myself, Isn't it a little early to
 free from parental bonds – our generation ?
By noon, seated under the spotlights at the dining table and sharing a glass of wine with
Martine. I said, “We have to nd a crèche for Loulou – She shows an existential need at
integrating a social circle.”
No sooner did we registered our daughter that she fullled the Nitzanim crèche
conditions for cleanness. I called out after breakfast, “Sunshine! Let's take you.” Picked
her up from the dining chair, and moved out into the street. Rehearsing a bird's-eye view
across the community to the adjacent Saint Giles. in diagonal across the bottom corner
of the park, a shortcut by the busy Square Rochefort, fetched by sight across two
direction trac lanes and tramway, in a morning reective daylight o a wall of
buildings, funneling a sombre entry into the narrow lined up street. Along the light
stied sidewalk, My skepticism glued to my baby, the evanescent tapering street in the
far distance.
The Virgo in her character, kept on repressing from hearing my deterrent sight of the
gloomy street, wiping the opposite row of brick townhouses, inciting a blind mask,
nding odds and calling to distract her, on balconies, behind windows, on the thresholds.
We reached the earlier distant milestone. Moved blocks forking our way, enough to
disorientate me. Crossed people, and asked, assuring our course. Then, we emerged in
an open pleasant daylight vista crossed by the main artery. On the last leg half way up
the block, I reiterated, “I'm taking you to be with other babies – I'll come and fetch you
later – don't worry I wont leave you here ...” Came to stand in front of the dark blue
 
You are My Sunshine
In the waiting, I sensed the peering lens of a video surveillance overhead, incited by a
free street draft. At the buzz, urged to pushed the heavy wooden gates, feeling a spring
back, and slipped through a narrow slit. Released my hand, clearing an historic porte
cochère blocked up in the far end.
We discovered together the doorway Immediately on the left, clearing the familiar style
townhouse of stairwell. Climbed the dogleg stairs, meeting on the rst oor landing two
of the sta women. For each of the family house wing rooms, a pediatric nurse, one of
who, in a fear soothing voice called out, “Sibylle! Come, let me take you.” Which innate
prerequisite to be received, will shadow our daughter's existence.
The bundle of clothes in an exchange of arms, with wide wondering eyes seeking upfront
a way, and leading a skeptic sweeping gaze to the oor of the right hand doorway.
Carried high and in alert, like a ashlight in the night, her beaming eyesight reaching out
in a corner by the window. Paused mesmerizing half a dozen crawlers in the midst of
bright colored baby toys. Unrelenting her sixth-sense beacon of sight ash up, like
raising the shadow of a ashlight holder, assuring I followed in her wake.
The imaginary bubblegum of my baby girl's volition blown incorporating us into the
bubble, with a cautious stretch from popping. by an earlier invitation from the woman to
remain in proximity, I scissored through bending legs lowering myself along the wall
near the door down to the oor. By eleven o'clock, the risk – fragile as a rain drop
through a pool surface, smacks a water blister – popping our invisible mirrored bubble.
Which, dome integrated by now the atmosphere of the little nursery crowd. I rose from
the oor, slipped out without spiritual suction for a vacuum to unbalance the emotions.
That afternoon, I returned to fetch her. Each of the following mornings, the magic of her
lenient detachment, shortened by an hour my stay. On the fourth day, I arrived on the
landing upstairs, and together with the pediatric nurse, in an exchange of my baby, we
turned heels and left in our ways.