Baby: the whole organism is too much for me to comprehend—the shadowy spine and ribcage on the ultrasound screen, the delicate transparent planet of the skull, nestled in the bony cradle of my pelvis. Too much, too much.
But I can think of these disparate things, pieces of the whole; I can comfort myself with these notions:
Those Cheeks--squirrel-fatted, exaggerated for extra suction, flush in a pattern of miniscule new arteries, swelling in unbelievable beauty and abundance, then melting like some kind of delectable peach pudding into the fat of the neck.
And Fingers--tiny functioning tools, topped with razor sharp little fingernails. Fingers and hands that will grasp at so many things in the course of a lifetime, but now, in the moments and months after entering the world, grasp only at the notion of grasping, caressing the air, pinching the monstrously larger fingers that adult humans offer it. And perhaps they grasp at a breast, the better to feed those cheeks. I will let you know.