When Theodore was born he smelled like a walk through the woods on a warm summer day. Pineneedles baking in the sun. Some people say babies smell like fresh baked bread, but I wonder if what they smell like is home.

Dappled sun hits his face and I see it filtered through the tree outside the Boise bedroom that would be his.

When the milk comes into my breasts, they tingle like blood going back into cold feet after a day on the slopes. Ice fishing on the lake.

A walk through the park becomes the Boise River Greenbelt. The paths of sunbaked pine needles around lake Pend Orielle. I warm his cold hands and picture the warmth of the fireplace in my parents’ living room. 

We’d planned to settle in the Northwest and choose a time that was the right balance between our careers and his schooling. I didn’t expect both not to have a career here or that home would occupy my every Theodore-based thought.


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