He was born at 6:25 a.m., the morning after Christmas.
The whole world lay quiet under a snowy blanket, glowing in the lavender light before sunrise.
Eight pounds, five ounces.
Twenty inches long.
His first word was Da-da.
I’ve seen him eat three bananas in a row.
I have video of his laugh, how he laughs until he has to gasp for breath.
I have his first curls from his first haircut.
There’s a picture of him pulling up for the first time, on the corner of his great-grandparents’ traveling trunk.
He’s finally getting the hang of talking. He’s even learned how to complain “Aw, MAN.” I write down the funny things that he says in his journal.
I try to remember, to hold on.
But how will I ever remember the feel of his cheek?
One day, if he is lucky enough to live a long and ordinary life, his cheek will grow rough and prickly. How will I remember the silky curve of his cheek beneath my fingertips?
Touch is a sense we can’t hold on to. What our fingers have known, we have to let go.