I can pretend that I knew Pudding. No, I did know him, not with my brain but with my body, and yet I know nothing about him, not even the simplest thing: I have no idea of what he’d want.
I knew my baby. I knew he would dance around in my belly when I ate potatoes and drank lemonade. He would wriggle around to certain songs so we made a playlist for him. I could have made a killing had I bought into some Burger King stock with the amount of times we ate there because it was a killer craving of mine. But that’s all I knew of him. I will never know who he would have been. Or what he would have wanted. Or dreamed of.
