|My little Goblin, one week old|
The days grow short, the sun shines blearily for a moment before disappearing back into its cave. Days are blinks, nights, eternal. The searching becomes a pawing, clawing, scratching thing at the bottom of my mind.
Distractions. Sewing. Dancing. Getting OUT! But, when you split open to create another person, the pieces of you lie there for months, weak, feeble, incapable of motion.
This year, somehow, the motionless insanity became warm contentment as small limbs curved over my rib, head nestled against my shoulder, pounds growing heavier, sinking deeper into me until there was no space between my heart and the warm, soft-boned contentment. I hold it in my arms.