Time is now measured, or seems to pass
not in minutes elapsed
but in my baby’s coos
In her fleeting smiles
Her curious gaze
In the number of blinks
before a cry or sleepiness sets in
In the strength building in the grip of her tiny hands
In the flushing and draining of color
in her tiny feet
with shifts in temperature
In the brushing of her soft skin against mine
In the bobbing of her head on my shoulder
when we set out exploring each room
In the turns she makes to find the coziest snuggle
In the tenderness she evokes while sleeping
wholly oblivious to her surroundings
In the steps it takes to reach her
when she needs to be held close
In the eagerness I feel
when I see her looking at me
alert as if she knows something and knew all along
Time is now passing in the unpredictable
pockets of silences that let in
wild wonderment about the journey
she has had from being within me
to now completely enveloping me
In the tussle
between a heart brimming with joy that she is mine
and a pair of tired eyes gazing back at her in disbelief
that she really is my tiny human
Time is passing
the world spinning
And yet life
now with my Mira
has never felt this untethered to its usual rhythms
Time
glowing
we dance in our own quiet spotlight
From the archives: Summer of ‘20, this decade.
While looking through some of my old notes on machine learning models, I found this poem I had written back when I lived in Connecticut — when my daughter was a newborn and I was a new mother.
The memory feels strange and sacred and wondrous, like a thing alive and breathing, almost primordial — not to be looked at directly or too often. But what better thing to do in the face of the shimmer and shine and tyranny of time than to place the poem here, gently, and let it infuse the rest of my growing body of writing.
Meanwhile, my daughter Mira, nearing five in 2025, has been polishing her knock-knock jokes, loves every single one of the Elephant & Piggie stories by Mo Willems, and laughed as she called me “silly goose duck mommy” and I kissed her goodbye at school drop-off this morning.
And now, while I still have a stretch of silence, notwithstanding this textured experience and deep Bergsonian yearning, I must return to my intended investigation of machine learning. Is there a model for this being human yet?