Today I sat in my daughter’s small, love-stuffed bedroom, amidst toys too numerous to count, while she was away at school. Drawn to her dress up trunk, I knelt humbly and emptied its contents one treasured article at a time. Once surrounded, a smile danced over me. I opened up inside, reuniting with the part of myself that I love – that is able to love. Grateful for the access, I lingered. I recalled every face she has ever made when she is dancing, the softness around her eyes, her proud smile – she pulls her lips in tightly. It was quiet, and I sorted her playthings; purpose to justify this indulgence. Before long, I uncovered a newborn sock, long since outgrown and promoted to the status of baby doll accoutrement. It was soft and miniature between my fingers. As my thumb worried it over, I became transfixed. From that stillness, the warm, sweet winds of sentiment carried me. I am unsure how long I sat there, soft and tearful, before I tenderly refilled the trunk and collected my spilled vulnerabilities. I stood, stretched my sweater over the scar on my chin, and held it there a moment – my lips meeting my finger just so. Reluctantly, I left her room, rejoining the metronomic passing of time and too many tasks, but softer in my stance.