Magic

Precious tiny creature. In the swing making sounds—like grunts and coos and a kind of squeak. Waving arms. Startling, the Moro Reflex, this primitive thing you do to protect against beasts and dinosaurs. A pure remnant of a long time ago. Little moving mouth, little moving eyes. I sat down to write here, finally, and then she began to cry in her swing and I cannot let her cry in her swing and so the writing was put off, and she laid in my arms and nursed until she fell asleep and I let her stay there, warm and soft with her mouth still open around my nipple. I spend a lot of time in this blue chair. The Giants game is on. We took a nap today, the three of us. She likes to sleep on her side and curl against us, her arms folded in front of her, one leg straight and one bent, the same way I like to sleep. The Giants score. The cat stares out the door. A stack of Thank Yous to write and oh how daunting that is. She squawks and tells me she'll soon tired of the swing. And so I'll stop this and scoop her up again. I am more than happy to do this. Here I come.