The rest of life must be set aside, to be resumed later. The holding of the Grandson is a Station, a ledge on the Mountain. As an experience, it is isolated in time, a moment to survey the stretch of the journey thus far, and how the way ahead is redirected, inevitably.
At nine days, the boy is busy absorbing new fluids, the reality that will bathe him the rest of his days. The warm wetness of womblife is past. He squirms as I cradle him, but then relaxes. Suddenly his large deep blue eyes fix into my own gaze. Does he sense that he is loved? When next he is held by me, will he remember?