The whisk makes her rounds in the metal bowl. We hear her in the other room. My husband stirs enough magic to coerce Kk back to the dining room table. With pressure, the whipped cream streams from container to pudding top. Four bowls and we have communion. A new inside joke about cows. Ten more minutes together carved out of the daily grind. Every swath of time that kk spends with us includes a running meter right now. We see Germany ahead, Iceland, Vienna, friends’ houses and hikes, her own bedroom. Everything is as it should be, bitter and sweet, rich and short. I find an old journal, a page that tells of a best friend in labor, a year before our Kk arrives. I write of how I’m not sure at what point  I’ll be ready to have a baby. Months later I’m sure and just over a year from the journal entry, kk arrives. And now, again, I’m not ready but this time I’m sure: this is how transitions work. They’re bitter and sweet, rich and short.


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