Cottage Seven
It is exactly as I remember it. The stone cottage with painted wooden steps. The long, shuttered windows overlooking a crescent of turquoise sea. Except now, in the corner of the room, there is an antique bassinet. White iron gently curved. It is draped in clouds of gossamer cloth pulled back with blue gingham bows.
In the bassinet is the most perfect baby, sleeping soundly, dressed in a delicate white gown. Pursed lips, full cheeks, a soft downy head. So vulnerable, so enchanting, my baby Patrick.
He is sleeping on his back, his head turned to the side. His satin chest rising and falling ever so slightly with each precious breath. His soft feathery lashes brush against the blush of his cheek, and I think at this moment that I have never seen a more beautiful child. I linger longer than I should. I dare not move. I hardly breathe, in fact, so as not to disturb this moment.
How long has it been since I held him in my arms? All two days of him before he stopped breathing and I continued before a nation with expectations. “She is a pillar of strength,” they said, but it was weakness, really, that made me stand so tall, so emotionally erect, when all else had tumbled down. My baby and my husband died in my arms, and I stood tall for all of you.
I have one day with them, with my husband, with Caroline, with John and baby Patrick. One perfect day at Cottage Seven. It will replace a lifetime, I am told. This one exquisite, ethereal, eternal escape.
