I sit here nursing Enoch and wondering how the time got away from me. Somehow I went from expecting to a mother of an eight week old baby. I had every intention of writing more. Every intention of having a written account of the whole experience. Instead there are these empty spaces. The unwritten account. The treasured memory. The thoughts and feelings refuse to be nailed down. They defy the pen or the attempted typed page. The memory is haunting, but memory is such a fluid beast that it is hard to confine it to a specific shape. The birth story needs told. There are other details that also need to be given account of. Perhaps one day soon. For now there are the memories.