The late morning light filters through the blinds, halfway open, like my eyelids.
My potted string-of-pearls bends toward the sound of chirping birds in the yard.
There’s the tick of a clock, an airplane passing overhead, a neighbor child riding a big wheel outside.
And one more sound.
Always new and oh so ancient,
and, for me,
on account of my extremely good fortune,
familiar.
It’s a rustle of blanket,
a sigh,
a gentle smacking of lips, and then—
light, steady breathing.
She’s eight days old, asleep at my left breast. As she dreams, her smile and fluttering eyelids make no sound at all.
My heart bursts from wholeness.
As soon as I realize this, a cloud of anticipatory loneliness washes over me. Is she the last one? The last unborrowed newborn I’ll hold close?
My eyes well with tears.
I remember someone else’s words about someone else’s future loss, that fit mine just as well:
The pain then is part of the happiness now. That’s the deal.
How can she be in my arms, yet grown and gone?
The math of love and time is senseless.
All I know is
I will soak in your smiles,
love you, love you, love you,
and hold you close
as you go.