Dance

Daughter is tired and crying. Tiny hands clenched, face beet-red, howling at the injustices of a world that doesn’t know what she wants.

I bring her to my shoulder and walk with her across a narrow corridor of our bedroom. Walk, walk, walk, pivot, walk, walk, walk, pivot. I feel like I’m back in a jazz dance class in the nineties. My shadow grows larger and smaller on the wall as I go. She stops crying and settles into my arms.

I feel the fuzz of her hair against my cheek and the warmth of her head. And I remember that this kind of moment is exactly what I imagined when I knew I wanted another baby. This is a moment I imagined over and over, walking the floor, shushing my baby. Now, here we are.

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