Feeling the weight of her forehead against my collarbone, the pull of the baby carrier against my waist, the small nugget of her left hand tucked under my right arm. Feeling the heat of her torso against my chest, through the sweater, and the relative cool of the room's air against the tops of my thighs, through the dark blue denim.
Smelling her sweet baby scent, plus the strange sourness of aged spitup, against yesterday's beef seared in bacon fat for boeuf bourguignon, which filled the apartment with dusky smoke and seeped into all the fabrics, so that when I sit on the couch or fold laundry, I get another whiff of that scent.
Tasting pizza--a two pizza Friday!--both in memory and anticipation. Pizza planned for dinner, as always, the dough thawing in the fridge from one of my late-pregnancy double batches. Pizza with P for lunch, a bit burned, the frozen kind from the supermarket, accompanied by his stories.
Stories, I heard, of his late wife's late forgetfulness, her burning of meals in the last months of her life. Stories of parenting children and parenting a spouse through the final days of life. Hearing, also, the rumbling of heavy vehicles on the road, and children yelling as they play in the snow on the hill across the street.
Seeing sunlight; snow; a huge moon in the sky. Seeing a pile of books waiting for me to read them, all expectant. Seeing a baby's smile when she recognizes me across the room, seeing her limbs start to windmill with excitement. Seeing myself in the mirror, foggy with fatigue (we heard a lot of cries last night, approximately every hour) -- but also somehow clear with a stubborn sort of love.