Feeding and rocking Emerson to sleep reminds me of Cohen at the same age, more than any other daily ritual. It seems not so distant a time that it was Cohen in my arms. The weight of his tiny body against mine, his blue eyes fluttering as he swam in that liminal moment. One perfect ear visible. A patch of hair rubbed smooth on the back of his head, resting against my arm. Dried milk on his cheek.
Now, nearing four, he pretends to nap as I rock Emerson. I assume he thinks I can't hear the pat of his socks on the floor boards and the click and knock of Duplo from behind his closed door. His brown eyes surely twinkling with his perceived mischief. Meanwhile, Emerson swims in the same in between state, with the same blue eyes, that she may or may not yet keep. A crow's call forces her eyes open as she struggles against the tide.
Moments like these I try hard to stem the hum and chatter of my brain. Laying aside the mental to do lists, fleeting thoughts and anxieties. Simply trying to enjoy the moment. As if meditating on all that is Emerson. Ensuring that I hold on to this memory. Her eyelashes finally meet. I hold my breath as I lay her down. Backing out of the room for another glimpse.
