He is snoring, left arm curled up with his hand pressed up against his round cheek, fist curled as if it was on its way to rub his eye but he fell asleep before before it got there.  He’s always able to wriggle at least one of his arms free in a choreographed series of shakes and frustrated leg lifts, no matter how tightly his swaddle is wrapped.  He is a vision of pure beauty, and I am crying.

Soon these moments will be gone, captured only by writings that can never do them justice, blurry photos on a cell phone and fading memories.


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