He cries from his basket to let me know: he’s awake now.
I smile when I see him, just to make sure he knows: he’s special.
He tries to smile, but there’s fussiness in those little eyes.
“Wanna nurse?,” I ask. He eagerly accepts, and closes his little eyes, still tired.
Fast asleep, he burrows his sweet face in the wool of my sweatered arm. Lashes are blonde, I notice, and there’s a baby cleft in his baby chin. Like his Papa, I wonder? Red lips are still puckered, and I think of how soft they are to kiss.
He’s getting older, right before our eyes — but here, gathered in my arms, sound asleep near my heart, he’s my little baby.
I’d like to tie up this moment and put it in my pocket for later.