We call Miro “fishface” when he’s hungry, because of his bulging eyes and gaping O-shaped mouth that opens and closes, but there’s something too of the desperation of the fish out of water, bucking terrified and helpless on the table. I feel panic radiate out from him, as if every time he’s hungry he fears he will never be fed. It’s raw and real but unlike most of the problems in the world it’s one I can fix instantly. I pull down my bra and scoop him into my arm where he knows what to do now; he finds the nipple easily and concern melts from his forehead. He drinks to excess, until he’s totally wasted. His limbs go slack and he struggles to see through heavy eyelids. He’s long past being able to hold his head up but even then he tries to refasten his lips for one more slurp. Finally he gives it up, snorting and keening in satisfaction, and splutters up a little that couldn’t fit into his packed belly. It makes me feel amazing. I have the power to make someone a perfect meal.
Hunger
A perfect meal . . . wow.