My Small World

Time stretches differently when you're small.

Days pass in cycles of light and warmth, milk and sleep, soft voices, and the chill of British weather slipping through the cracks in the walls. I'm nearly a year into this new life—eight months old and counting—and the strange truth is this: my world is still no bigger than a room, a hallway, and a lap.

But within that small world, everything has changed.

I've grown—not just in inches, though I've put on weight and filled out. My limbs respond more to my will than they once did. My neck no longer wobbles like a sapling in the wind, and I can now push myself up on my arms, rock back and forth, and—on the better days—crawl like a determined drunk. Sometimes backwards. Sometimes sideways. Rarely forward.

It's infuriating and slightly comical.

I was once thirty. I could drive a car. I could walk miles. Now I celebrate reaching a table leg. I babble syllables, and my family acts like I've unlocked the secrets of the universe.

The tenderness in my mother's hands and my father's hopeful gaze still catch me off guard. Part of me feels undeserving, caught between memories of another life and the warmth of this one.

But truthfully… it feels good. To be cared for and celebrated for something. Even if that something is "ba" and "da", and what I suspect may soon become "muh" or "nuh".

Each person in my life has made it their mission to get me to say their name first. It's like an unspoken competition. My father leans in with exaggerated patience, mouthing "Babbo" with a hopeful smile like it's the most important word in the world. 

My Italian grandmother—Nonna—presses my hand to her cheek and whispers it with syrupy warmth, repeating it like a song: "Nonna, Nonna, Nonna." My grandfather—Nonno—sticks to fewer words, but every time he lifts me, he mutters it low, like he's planting the sound in me through repetition. 

On the English side, it's gentler but no less eager. My mother softly coaxes "Mummy", as she holds me close, and her mother always greets me with "Nanny's here" in a singsong voice, tapping my nose. Grandad is more laid-back about it—he just smiles and points at himself, saying his title slowly like it's a game he knows he'll eventually win. Unfortunately for them I haven't spoken any of them clearly yet.

I've come to know what I look like through them—through their coos and whispers, the way they linger when they think I'm not listening. I have light brown hair that curls slightly at the back and warm brown eyes that reflect light like rare stones. 

A small nose, soft cheeks, and the kind of face they call "cute as a button." I know this because they say it often—sometimes with a laugh, sometimes with a sigh, as if they can't believe they made me.

My hands have grown plumper and stronger. I've noticed I can grip things with real intent now—blankets, fingers, and even my feet. There's power in these little fists.

And sometimes—only sometimes—when I'm alone, quiet, and still, I feel something else. A kind of warmth under my skin, like a hum, like strength waiting to bloom. It's not physical, not exactly, more like an ember glowing behind my ribs, steady and unshaken. I don't know if it's just imagination, or maybe it's just my mind being ultra-sensitive. 

I've remembered that feeling. If reincarnation is possible, who's to say that I don't have some hidden power or that this might not even be my world.

I'm breastfed. That sentence alone still makes some corner of my old mind wince.

It's not constant anymore. I've been slowly weaned to include soft foods—mashed potato, boiled carrots, peas passed through a sieve. Occasionally, I'm given tiny bits of stewed apple or a lick of jam if I'm exceptionally "well-behaved." 

My grandad sneaks me gravy from his fingertip when no one's looking. I think he sees it as an introduction to being a "proper butcher's grandson."

But milk is still the foundation. When I cry, it's what I'm given. Sometimes, I drink because I'm hungry, and other times, for comfort. There's something profoundly grounding about it—this warm connection to another human being, unfiltered and essential. Being fed by someone who holds you like you matter more than anything else in the world… that's not something I ever appreciated before.

As for nappies—cloth, of course. Pinned and folded with all the care of origami. They're rinsed in a metal bucket behind the house and boiled in a pot once a week. The smell never quite leaves the air.

I do what babies do: I soil myself. I sit in it longer than I care to admit until someone realizes. I try not to think about it too much, but there are moments when my pride takes a hit, especially early on. I am a man who once held a job, voted, and paid taxes. 

Now, I grunt and whimper, and someone wipes me clean.

But that's part of this deal. Rebirth isn't glamorous. It's real. It's messy.

It's human—and deeply humbling.

My cries have become fewer and more precise now, purposeful rather than helpless, reserved for hunger, cold, or the uncomfortable heaviness of a soiled nappy. Yet each time someone comes to soothe me—my mother softly shushing, my father gently patting—I'm reminded sharply of my dependence, a bitter-sweet reminder that rebirth has humbled me in ways I never expected.

I'm beginning to understand the language around me—not the words, I was English born and raised in my last life, but I'm still learning the cadence and rhythm of the household. My name, Richard, is said with varying tones: joy, exhaustion, worry, and amusement.

When my Babbo comes home and lifts me in the air, he says it low and warmly. My Mum murmurs it over me when I stir from sleep. Both sets of grandparents pronounce it with curious admiration, like they're waiting to see what I'll become.

There's another language I've come to grasp shallowly, two, actually. 

My Babbo's parents often speak to me in Italian, their voices rich with music and memory. "Tesoro," "Bello bambino," my Nonna calls me in an endearing tone. My quieter Nonno still manages a "Coraggio, piccolo" when I manage to pull myself up without help.

Sometimes Latin slips into their speech like incense in a chapel—phrases that sound more like prayer than conversation. "In nomine Patris," I've heard more than once, muttered absently while rocking me. I don't know if it's a habit, but it leaves a warmth in the air.

I've begun to pick up some of the simpler Italian words. I know "Mangia" means eat, and "Latte" means milk. "Brava" is followed with a kiss on the head. And when Nonna says "Attento," I've learned to stop what I'm doing—usually because I'm about to chew something I shouldn't.

I can sit now, unsupported, for short stretches. I crawl with more intention, dragging myself toward bright things and human voices. 

I've even managed to pull myself to a stand once—my fingers clenched around the rough leg of a chair—before promptly falling on my behind.

I cried. Then I laughed. Then I tried again.

Every step forward feels like a private triumph. And yet, my progress is met with celebration out of all proportion. My Nan wept the first time I clapped. 

My Babbo stopped in the middle of eating to watch me drag myself across the rug, his face slack with something between pride and disbelief.

He hums when he holds me—tuneless and quiet, like he doesn't know he's doing it. But I do. It's the same sound he makes when working late at the table, fixing broken tools, or counting coins. A sound of effort. A sound of trying.

The seasons have changed again. It's May, just the end of spring, and the summer sun brings sweltering heat. 

There are days I barely leave my room. But there are also days—Sundays, mostly—when I'm brought to the sitting room and passed around like a sacred object.

Once, my Nan carried me to the market, and a toddler waved at me from across a fruit stall. I waved back—unintentionally. The adults clapped.

She's softer in tone than Nonna but no less fierce when someone questions how many blankets a baby needs.

My Grandad reads the paper aloud, skipping bits I'm "too young" to hear. My Nonna clicks her tongue and tells stories between bites of bread pudding.

Sometimes, she sings while she knits, her voice soft and crackling like the wireless. Songs in Italian or half-remembered lullabies from her own childhood.

The wireless hums in the background. The voices from Germany are becoming harder to ignore. I hear names that make my stomach knot—Hitler, Mussolini. 

I know what's coming. But I can't stop it.

I've grown since being reborn; I'm not the man I was before—not exactly. I'm becoming something new. Someone who can feel joy in sunlight on the floorboards or the rough scratch of wool socks against my fingertips. Someone who smiles back when a face peers into my cot. 

And when I do speak, it won't just be baby talk.

It will be the voice of someone who's lived, died, and been given another chance.

There's a whole world waiting, and I'm going to meet it properly this time.