Settling down on the couch by the window, I fed Isabella, my mind recalling the times I had seen the mothers of other families doing the same thing with their newborns. The way the baby had been so secure and safe in its mother s arms as it drank. It was watching those mothers that had begun my own sense of longing for children. I rocked Isabella gently and closed my eyes, flashes of memories playing before me as if I were watching a slideshow of snapshots from my life. I saw my ten year old self hopping down the top of the mountain, one pink gumboot not on my foot, but instead buried in a deep hole of snow somewhere behind me. I watched my eleven year old self build a cubby house out of blankets and sheets in the corner of the bedroom. My twelve year old self jumped from the top bunk of one bed to another, the hard wooden floor layered with plump pillows... just in case. The good parts of my childhood had been here in this broken down, gas powered hut. My parent s messy separation, everything that haunted me at home, evaporated the minute I stepped foot in the bush.

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