On this day, this very day each year, I sit remembering that sweet scent that came to me all swaddled and encased in blue, with the furl of his fingers gripping his father’s hand. I fumble among those treasured memories of how the fullness of his head changed from brown, to none, to blonde. I picture how swiftly his legs began to move and his voice began filling this home’s silenced rooms.
For the days have come when his stride is beginning to quicken. His arms are doubling in length. His height is beginning to encroach upon my middle.
When was the moment of newness lost, left only to remain in the shadows? Where have the days gone when all his world was full and content just to sway along with his mother’s hips?
Now we are three.
Just slow down, little man, for frames can’t catch you when your moving too fast.