Late Migrations: A Natural History of Love and Loss

by Margaret Renkl

I haven’t forgotten how exhausting it was to be the mother of young children or how often I was frustrated by the close rooms and constricted plans of those days, the way my boys were always in my arms or at my feet. I haven’t forgotten how repetitive those days were, how I often felt unable to draw a deep breath. And yet I sometimes let myself imagine what a gift it would be to start all over again with this man, with these children, to go back to the beginning and feel less restless this time, less eager to hurry my babies along. Why did I spend so much time watching for the next milestone when the next milestone never meant the freedom I expected? There will be years and years to sleep, I know now, but only the briefest weeks in which to smell a baby’s neck as he nestles against my shoulder in the deepest night.