It is early.
Way too early.
Our bedroom is still pitch black, and with the window open a crack, it’s also very, very cold. Another night of rolling, insufficient sleep, and all Rachelle and I want to do is dig deeper into the duvet, into dream, and sleep until we’re rested. We could rise in the next century, for all we care. It doesn’t matter. And then through the baby monitor I can hear Jones. He has probably been awake for 20 minutes, but he knows not to come into our bedroom until the alarm goes off, and so he waits sweetly in the dark. This morning he is amusing himself by singing.
Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.
And as I am listening to his small voice, I know that he is lying on his back, his bare feet up and against the wall. His Frankenstein pillows scattered about, a drawing of a shark on his desk, his tiny teddy bear ‘Little’ in his arms.
The astonishing beauty of arriving at this point in time.
This small, quiet moment.
Something one day we will surely close our eyes to recall.
