five-sense Friday

The room is awash with sunshine. I feel its warmth on my face, on my heavy-tired eyelids, on my arms. My hands are dry with all the washing between diaper changes--the fingertips rub against each other like emery boards. I suppose I am polishing, softening everything I touch?

My mouth is sweet with orange segments, rooibos tea, the promised apple that waits, washed, on the table. My shoulders ache, just a little, with weight of a small human often tied to them.

She whimpers, just slightly, in her sleep, a contented sort of vocalized breathing. She also snorts and shifts, always active. The radio plays ballads. Everything I pick up seems to smell of milk. My house is a mess, a shambles, a collection of piles and stray threads. The beauty of each day is enough to take the wind out of you.