You lie sleeping on my chest.
The weight of your body hardly enough to feel.
The sound of your shallow breaths go in and out…
And I look down at you.
So small, so fragile.
Your tiny hand curled and resting on my breast.
Before I know it, you’ll be two
And your hands will no longer be tiny and delicate
And the weight of you on my chest will be heavy but comforting.
You will stand on the cusp of independence,
Ready to be your own person
(As long as I’m right there beside you).
And then you will be four
And your hands will be thin again, losing all traces of their toddleriness.
Too long and too heavy to lay on my chest, you’ll lie beside me.
And even though your weight isn’t bearing down on me, you take my breath away.
How did you get so big so fast?
Was it not just a week ago that you were the little babe?
And then you will be six.
Too old to nap,
Too big to want to rest with Mommy.
But you’ll cuddle up beside me and I will read to you
And then you will read to me.
And, once again, you’ll take my breath away.
I want to freeze each moment.
I want to relish it all in a way that I can instantly recall it even years from now.
But I know that’s not the way memories work.
So I write. I photograph. I chronicle it all.
I do it for you.
I do it for me.
I do it to remember.
“Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture and save it from the funny tricks of time
Slipping through my fingers all the time…”