Eva Mae Davis
02/06/2009
I remember the pages of the search and find we were reading the morning you arrived. We were hiding. Hiding from the noise, from the cold, from you. We didn’t know who you’d be, but we loved the idea of you, feared the becoming of you, didn’t know what to make of the reality of you. We were searching for the lion, it was sleeping – you weren’t. You’d woken us all, and we were waiting. Waiting in the silence between their footsteps down the hall and the earthquakes that were hers.
I remember creeping across the floor, we were searching for the sounds echoing through our house. We were seeking out the warm, seeking out the storm, seeking you out. We didn’t quite know what we’d see – but children stare at everything – and you were the newest kind of being. When we found you, you were only half out – half ours – half held – halfway between her hips and his wrists. There was so much sound.
I remember the child-lock and the towels, the scissors, and the hands – the panic of trying to get you here safely – all the things we had to find, the way you cried when the cold hit, you had our eyes, and we didn’t quite know why, but you were never just theirs – we’d been reaching out – seeking you out – asking to touch you with our hands.
Making shapes in our silence so your sound could fit.
Eva Mae Davis is a recent graduate from Te Herenga Waka, where she studied English Literature and Sociology. She is currently spending her time looking at and doing things she loves.