Last night, or perhaps today, in the lean hours of the morning, you called out. You cried like your heart was broken and I went to you, lifted you from the crib, cradled you like a tiny babe. Every time I laid you down, you began crying anew, so I relented and held you, heavy across my body, as I rocked and murmured and considered the street lights outside your bedroom window. It began to snow, one of those heavy, secret snows that tumble in while everyone sleeps, and the room glowed softly, perfectly. I looked down at you, with your fans of dark lashes and mess of duckling hair, and I could not imagine, could not fathom, a world in which you are a grown man. We will always be just like this, surely. This boy baby and his mother.
And, in this perfect world, I imagined for us something like this story, but far, far less socially awkward and without all the improbable ladder-climbing.