Held in the Dark

Last night he woke,

just an hour after sleep had taken him.

Not fully crying.

Just calling.

He was still heavy with sleep when I lifted him.

And then he did that thing —

that complete surrender.

His body melted into mine.

All weight.

All trust.

His head rested against my chest,

his soft hair tucked beneath my chin.

I closed my eyes

and simply felt him.

The warmth of his small body.

The steady rhythm of his breath.

The way my arms know exactly how to hold him

without thinking.

There is a particular ache

in holding something you know is already changing.

So I opened my eyes.

I wanted to see it.

To witness myself in it.

The dim golden room.

My arms wrapped around him.

The quiet sway of us in the dark.

One day he will be too big

to hang heavy against my chest like that.

One day my arms will not be his whole world.

But last night —

in that hush between waking and sleeping —

he fit perfectly.

And I stood there a little longer than necessary.

Not because he needed me.

But because I needed to remember.

Some seasons are exhausting.

But some moments within them

are sacred.

Held in the dark.

Held in the becoming.