Two weeks. I find myself sipping this new life like sweet tea. Aspen suddenly feels so big in my palms. I wipe her face and comb her hair and pull pajamas onto her feet, and she tells me a story she made up on her own, about a green horse, a spider, a trampoline.
And he, my milky boy, is still so new, but old, too. He's been here all along.
There have been moments of darkness, when I reach my arm out and feel that the fog is just beyond my fingertips. I could cup my hand and drink it in. I choose not to. Sometimes, I can feel it around my ankles - a hint of emptiness beneath the joy. Postpartum will do that to you. But I have been careful this time. I'm making sure that I stay well; I'm making sure that I keep my heart above the fog, in the light. In the present.
Everything that touches light, itself becomes light. Two weeks of light. Two weeks spent becoming my Self.