All these years later, motherhood still thrums within me like a pulse, and I catch myself swaying whenever I’m standing in a long line, soothing the ghost baby fussing in my arms. I look at my sons, all taller than six feet now, and sometimes I can’t quite believe I’m not still carrying them around on my hip, not still feeling their damp fingers tangled in my hair or clutching the back of my blouse. Sometimes at supper, when one of them brings a glass to his lips, I can still imagine a sippy cup gripped in his fingers.
