Lovefest

Priceless and precious: lingering after waking, knowing a pint-sized person will soon awake as well and prefer to nestle toes and all under ever-warmer covers quick as a flash. Little nose in the space of your neck; little arm over you: irreplaceable.

Saying 'I love you' out of nowhere, during the day and across the room after being tucked in for the night. Sharing dreams, good and bad, hearing laughter and whimpers at different times once slumber has taken over, staying awake purposely though not consciously just to be together longer.

Finding little treats collected over time: little moments strung together more precious than a beaded necklace, more fragile: passing memories as soon as they happen.

Always singing, always smiling, always sharing funny stories and new jokes: the gift of a happy child. Though always is not really 'always'; a child like this will seek every possible time to renew their own hope and yours. Always trying to capture a smile or a laugh, not forgetting what fear feels like, and not looking for it.

They are here to remind us of 'now', of all there is that matters. Tomorrow is another day; today is what we have. Yesterday is over, always, to a child.

The blanket was sewn again, as many times before, held together by threads on top of each other. It feels soft and solid once more though no less fragile: full of priceless irreplaceable memories, from when its entire size fit completely over a little person that now still holds it fast during the night close to his face. He's now shy to have his forehead kissed with others around though the blanket is always accounted for and never far away: the first to wipe sudden tears and keep close.

The shape of the face is the same, as is the softness of his hair and skin, as when he was so small, still in a stroller, falling asleep, 'checking out' from the noise when it became too much. Peace was looking at his face and touching his hair and skin; comfort was doing the same when bad dreams had him calling out to make sure I was there. I answered by the touch that was unmistakeable, stroking his face and pulling the covers over his shoulders until the whimpering stopped and the pained expression returned to one of rest again; sometimes it seemed like every night, though it wasn't. I never tired of comforting him; my rest was and is his.

He tells me what I cannot help and cannot change, as if he knows; sometimes he's right. I tell him what is not his to worry about, what isn't about him, what cannot hurt him. The last time I said I thought he was 'the greatest' he said 'Think?'. "I know you're the greatest", I said, corrected. Something must be working. He will have what I didn't have; he will know who he is and claim him, because someone was there to tell him he could.