“Mmmmmmmmmmm nom nom” is the sound she makes, intonating up and down, crescendoing as she exhales. She perches in her orange high chair at mealtime. Her hands are stretched towards the ceiling, twisting at the wrist in circles and her legs are outstretched, feet twirling at the ankles. An orchestrated dance. And she chews and masticates and delights in whatever she managed to get into her mouth. Maybe it was coconut yogurt and pineapple. Tonight, enchiladas. It doesn’t matter.

The little lip smacks she makes while she stares intently at her plate.

Determining with her eyes now what her pincer grasp, the one she’s been working so hard on for all these months, laser-like now its precision, will next grab.

This noise. I want to bottle it up. Record it on a loop. Store it in my memory when I need to have a reset, to feel small again and get wonder at how I’ve landed in the universe. Remind myself that we all learn things, like how to bring food to our mouths, with precision, then bite, chew and swallow. Over and over again. We do this – and she’s learning how – to stay alive, to have sustenance, to live our culture, to break bread together, to restore and connect, to linger, to become a family, one meal around the dining table at a time.

Before her, I couldn’t dream of enjoying these sounds, the sounds of being human.

And yet now, here I am. Letting the smash and mash, moan and groan, snap and crunch, gulp and murmur sit across the table from me.

And I too am savoring it.