ジョシュ・ブローリンのインスタグラム(joshbrolin) - 3月5日 00時29分
The bathtub is lukewarm but you don’t seem to care. Your head is laying against my sternum, and I have my fighter’s hands encompassing your chunky newborn thighs to make sure you don’t slip down into the milky bath water. I don’t know what you’re looking at but you seem content: arms splayed out but relaxed, your breathing soft as milled cotton. You look to the right for a moment and you seem to startle a bit, maybe unsure about the change of view. So I grab your wrists and notice each intended, horizontal line up your right arm, that border gully between each roll that sustains you now, each separated like small, grocery store bought cinnamon roles without the separated baggie of icing yet torn open and put on. I play with each finger for a moment then the whole hand, it looks like a brand new playhouse toy hand waiting to be fixed on some lonely girl’s waiting to be bought dream doll. She squeezes my index finger with old strength, as if she was reminding me of something I am supposed to have remembered. And I miss her already. She uses the leverage of her grip on me to find equilibrium and kicks at the water in front of her a few times, then sits with it, still, staring at the tiny waves descending. There’s no reason she should be this calm so young. She drinks up sight. She tastes at the air. She feels through any sound that passes her. She sits there as if it’s all happened before, and I stay still because it hasn’t. I’m almost sure of it. I was meant to I wash her hair but I haven’t yet and I’m not moving until she does. No way.
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