I'm getting ready to go to a Halloween party where I will be dressed up as a cat and my husband will be a litter box. I'll be sure to post pics. In the meantime, here is part of the assignment I wrote for the creative writing class I take at the local art museum:

I can still hear Tolby’s cries the first time Chris changed her diaper in the hospital where we roomed for the first time as a family. The cold air hit legs that had been warmly cocooned for so long and Tolby’s eyes went wide, her lips vibrating in hysterical shivers. Maybe we were evil parents for having laughed, but the silly sound of her determination made us giddy. Chris swaddled her just like the nurse had taught him, and my baby was warm and silent when he handed her back to me.

I can still feel Tolby’s silk skin over the round rise of her tummy. She is smooth everywhere, especially where the skin stretches over the tiny ball of her heel. Chris is incredulous about her softness—he says it like this: “I can’t believe it.” He utters the words often, with a genuine wonderment that is antithetical to his usual jaded demeanor.

But I can’t see her. Not like she was in those first hours and days. At three months old, she is already so far removed from her original state that I have to look at photographs to remember. Her dark hair is now light; her black eyes, now blue. I’d be so sad if it wasn’t for the memory of her breath, her nascent cry, and the skin that her father just couldn’t believe.


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