My Peach
I lose myself smelling the top of her head, the nape of her neck. The “newborn scent” is utterly and unforgivably sweet–like the skin of a June peach. Everyone says that it’ll disappear after 3 months. I guess that’s the time when the freshness fades and the world sets in. City air, Mommy’s stress, the cumin-scented hallway begin to settle on the surface, never to leave.
But, for now, she’s the peach on our West Village block. Our little sack of sugar… Our chance to experience something–someone– that only requires kisses and food and sleep.
I want to write more but her little cheeks call. A little nibble and I’ll be back. I’ve actually been tip toe-ing back toward the stove, coming up with fast, delish recipes for all you harried, crazed, desperately-in-need-of-half-a-bottle-of-pinot-grigio moms. Slow- roasted cherry tomato rigatoni is on the menu. But I can’t do anything until after my bite of peach pie.
