Postscript

In all our fanciful talk
of crisp, white bed sheets,
Romania, and teaching English,
I never thought to mention
we would call our son 'Ted' -
after our poetic match-maker,
your alter-ego, second self.

I remember the month
I spent in France last summer
with family and friends.
My father's godson,
only eight months old,
had your eyes and
a mop of golden blonde hair.

Balancing him on my hip,
I'd wander down the beach,
his tiny fists clutching
at my necklace - which
eventually found its way
to his mouth. He didn't mind
if I called him 'Ted'.

This is all just harmless musing,
by the way - no hidden
meanings or messages...
Just a footnote on
a changeling child
on the pages of our
would-be history.