She has a rash on her Bunda (pronounced Boon-dah) so when I hear her squeaks from outside the door I check to make sure there is nothing burning a hole in her britches--so to speak. While I am at it, I give her an evening bottle. With the others snug in their beds, she chugs four ounces and we are now in the kitchen swaying back and forth between a half-moon outside and a spotless table top in. During the swaying she is wrapping her thin arms tightly around my neck and I am thinking of every thing and person that graced that table today. And, I am thinking of the work required to fill and empty a table of so many things and people each day. Today: an aunt and uncle and their first born, 96 crayons, many pencils sharpened and unsharpeded, glue, flowers, glued flowers, forty little fingers, and twenty big, cheerio necklaces, pizza without sauce, edamame shells, dried drips of milk, empty baby food jars, quesadilla shreds, books, mail, paper mache fish, quiet. Now she is cooing loudly into my warm neck and I am lost in it all. Ready again to rest from the labors of loving and of always clearing a space for the next meal, the next guest, the next task. I am loving the ability to do these things and loving being loved by those for whom they are done.