How do you blink and suddenly he stands before you - blazing blue eyes electric with mischief and a kind of raw love that bubbles over his seams in giggling hugs and rushing sarcasms and sleepy love-you-too's before I shut off his light? And this came from me? This little human so wild and curious and brilliant - short on grace but so deep and wide with heart.
And he owns mine.
And it doesn't matter how frustrated I might be - how at the end of myself and my patience - how tired - how fragile - he is still my world and I would swim in the ocean of his eyes for a taste of his sweetness.
Seven years. I feel paralyzed with it. How much have I already forgotten? Can I remember the smell of his newness - that skin first kissed by light and life - how dark it was and how small he was and how I was and am and always will be his first love? What about the dampness of his hair when we'd fall asleep beneath a mooned window? How it would stick against my cheek and blend into my own and make us one - this snap shot beauty of mother and son framed in stillness. Can I have each moment? Could I have caught them? Bottled them? Saved them to get drunk on when he's suddenly a man and finds a new love?
Slow down, baby boy. We only have right now.