A Poem, After Four False Starts in Other Directions

Tonight, I walked the streets with the baby, just strapped her onto my chest and headed out because neither one of us could stay in.
It was just cold enough; the air felt bracing.
I held her tiny hands, the only parts uncovered, and although she had been fussing for what seemed like hours indoors, outside she looked at me with solemn eyes, released an occasional conspiratorial chirp.
It was late; I didn't say that yet, but it was late, past ten, and people gave us second looks, wondering why, I'm sure, we were out at all.
And partly because of the cold and partly because I couldn't stop myself, my eyes watered a little,
Which I suppose is a coward's way of saying I was crying.
It is hard, this business of putting someone's needs before your own, of holding an impossibly small person against your body as she jerks away, discontented,
Not with you, per se, but with the night itself, a pain, a wordless fear or sorrow.
Who knows?
And so we walk, we force our fists unclenched, we leave the warmth and spots of lamplight, and we walk direct into the night, holding onto tiny hands, nodding at the bouncer at the nightclub, the dog walkers, the car parkers, the curious faces of the city night folk.
Or I walk, holding you: you baby, who cannot walk, who cannot tell me why, who cannot assent, who can only protest.
And you do not.
Instead, you settle, you settle into me, and I pull your little knit cap down further over your ears, and you meet my eyes, you look at me with what I take for approval,
And we keep walking.