There are newborns in our life, not our own but directly and indirectly related to us. Up until now babies were alright.

I feel like a child though, one who's been denied something they didn't even know they wanted. We got to visit a newborn, and from the confines of the vehicle oohed and aahed at the tiny bundle that opened and closed its eyes to the light from the comfort of its parents arms. They sat on lawn chairs in their garage, our gift bag in quarantine for the time being. I didn't think I would crave feeling the softness of a baby's duvet hair, or the contour of its supple shape, but I did.

I suppose I've been gifted a tiny preview of what grandparenting must be like, an understanding of the craving for a taste of the thing someone else has too much of.