“How old is your baby?” I ask.
“Three months,” she answers. New momma pride rounds the words, making them full and rich.
The tiny infant rests in the crook of her arm and she shifts the child.
“Precious,” I murmur.
She blushes, still new to the rush of parental pleasure that accompanies any praise of our offspring, and gently touches her baby’s cheek with one finger.
“So little,” I say, “but they grow up before you know it.”
She glances up for a moment, smiles at my words and nods, before she refocuses her attention on her child and coos at the babe.
She does not look away from his face. “He’s big now.”
My first clue that it’s a boy.
“He was 4lbs 3oz when he was born.” She adjusts one of his socks that has slipped to reveal a miniature pink heel, repositioning the bit of white and yellow knit to cover his foot. It will be an endless task. One of many she will repeat too many times to count.
“He will get bigger,” I assure her. “Before you know it he will be taller than you!”
Her eyes meet mine as we engage in the small talk of mothers. It takes no heed of the length of the timespan between us, whether decades or a mere handbreadth.
We are so different, she and I. Worlds apart, really. But together we dance the ageless dance of Eve, repeating the spoken ritual as our mothers did before us. We recognize each other, and pay homage to motherhood, my sister life-giver and I.
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