The miasma, the earthy funk, of a toddler fresh from a nap. Sweet childhood sweat, a waft of wet diaper, stale breath, the last whiff of sweet baby hairline–just there, behind his ear.
Chipotle hot sauce, garlic, onions, chicken and oil, hot cast iron.
Rain and early falling leaves, thrumming on glass. The fading sky, autumnal and drab.
The rhythmic whine of the dishwasher: swom… swom… swom… swom…
The flutter of my fingers, hovering over the keyboard. My too long hair, falling into my field of vision.
The dog’s too long nails, as he mills underfoot: clack clack clack
Moist heat from the stove, a sheen of sweat on my upper lip.
Two small, grimy, perfect hands around my waist, “Mama?”
Yes.
Move Over Mary Poppins! 