Seven Years Old

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.