This could be any island home, but I’m going to imagine that with it’s peach walls and surrounding palm trees, we are in Bermuda. The beaches there are nowhere near this rugged, but it is still possible. And it’s one of those days, where the sky is white and gray and cornflower blue and rains hard for five minutes before the sun cracks through the clouds and it turns into a perfectly, beautiful day.
Every morning at the crack of dawn, Luma starts to squawk. Within a few minutes of not being picked up she sounds more like a rooster. When Jason, Iole and I spent three-months in Folegandros, the ki-ki-ri-ki-ki of the roosters was our wake-up call there, too. Only, the sound was far less obnoxious on a far flung island in the Aegean. From our little house in Chora, it was funny and familiar and signaled the start of a bright new day. I can’t say we’re always so chirpie and optimistic, these days, when the bird song begins. But when I finally fold, step into her room, and find a baby girl all dressed in white with crazy wisps of hair in her face and a smile from ear-to-ear, optimism is restored.
All rights reserved © La Parachute · Theme by Blogmilk + Coded by Brandi Bernoskie