The quiet of my heart

I watch the sun warm his skin on this early spring afternoon and I am overcome by the feeling of wanting to hold onto this moment forever. I can watch the days pass in his face the way I watch the decades on my own. He grows, he changes, so much in such a short time it overwhelms me. His childhood will end before I know it, this fragility, this innocence, this purest form of love. I could watch it slip through my grasp like so much soft, white sand.

He is three with a bad haircut, three with a scar under his left eye and a small chip in his front tooth. Three with long legs and a heart that feels as if it wants to break free from his chest. He loves all, passes no judgement, knows only the kind of simple honesty that belongs to the young. He knows night follows day, laughter comes after smiles, and that a good day should always end in a bath. His tiny voice makes my heart sing.

I want to freeze this moment in my soul, hold onto this precious youth of his with the desperate grasp only a mother can posses. I take more pictures of him than I could ever keep; they could fill a room with their glossed-over memories. But each photograph does nothing to preserve his joy, his exuberance, his youth. They are a poor reflection of how real the actual moment was, and this truth makes me sad to look at them, though that doesn't stop me from taking them. They have become an obsession.

He is my son, and he will always be my son, even though he will grow big and strong and shed the pureness of his childhood. He will be a man. He will be a banker, a climber, a rock star. He will be filled with his own dreams and desires and wishes for his future. I will respect him and grow proud of all he has become. But in the quiet, dark parts of my heart, he will always be the sweet babe who wrapped his chubby fingers around my own. His eyes will always shine with the love he has for me, his mommy. He will always be my child. And there, in my soul, I will hold onto this moment forever.