“Hush little Nikki, don’t say a word. Papi’s gonna buy you a looking glass.”

I can still hear his gruff voice lulling me–sometimes when I least expect it.

If I close my eyes tightly enough, I can smell the musk of his cologne, feel the stubble from his five o’clock shadow skim my forehead while he sings.

If I concentrate long enough, I’m a little girl again, sitting on my grandfather’s knee.

His warmth envelops me while we sway gently.

His heart beats against my cheek and I inhale the moment.

I feel safe.

I’m home.

My dog rustles the covers next to me and in an instant the memory is gone, leaving only wet eyes and a desperate longing in its wake.

I ground myself in my dog’s breathing. The warmth of his head against my lap. I stroke his fur and continue the song, struck by the circularity of the moment.

My husband lies beside us, scrolling on his phone.

Our newborn son sleeps peacefully in his bassinet.

He’ll never know his great-grandfather. But in other ways, I wonder if he knows him already.

As I watch him sleep, I hope that he knows love, comfort, and safety the same way I did.

Home is different now, but in some ways it’s also the same.

I get to be home now too.