My Son’s Little Foot

Memorializing a perfect moment

My son sleeps in his pouch attached to the front of my body. I reach my right hand down to caress his tender little foot. With my fingertips, I cup his tiny toes. They’re soft, slushy velveteen like tiny newborn mice. His little foot fits so perfectly in my hand, warm against my palm. A gentle, yearning squeeze to memorialize this feeling, like kisses from clouds, but I feel the memory slipping from my skin the moment I let go.

Ten years from now, or 40 if I’m lucky, let me remember this feeling of holding my little baby against me. All the world is yet for him to see, unmarred by human flaw. He is an angel visiting Earth to rescue me.

His sweet baby snores are a song against my chest. His breath is like gentle snowflakes. The warmth of his head and the freshness of all that he is and all he might be rests in a peaceful slumber that only the cadence of my heart can provide. I squeeze his warm little foot one more time and close my eyes. I tell my 80-year-old self to remember this foot and this sweet snore. I inhale the infant musk emanating from his scalp under gossamer wisps of elvin spun silk and feel grateful for having had this very moment in my life.