The voice
My grandson, to hear his voice downstairs is like a taste of sugar and browned butter, like the sound and feeling of having your hair trimmed by someone you trust, like the smell of your mother, when you're a child. I remember being amazed at the sounds of my own daughter’s voice babbling poetry after the story and lights out, but this is like that aged in oak barrels for 30 years, not it but me. The second derivative. How can we be too busy to taste this sweetness while in the midst of it?