You bring him home from the hospital, in our case so early that you haven’t yet bought him a bed.
You look at him, inscrutable in a quickly assembled bassinet, and set about understanding him.
You hold him.
You hold him until, and while, he learns to walk, then hold out your hands so that he has somewhere to practice walking to.
You hold him only when he wants you to (and perhaps just a little more).
You imagine him in the world, first looming above others, their turning to him; then small, unknown, alone.
You put on his socks and shoes approximately 100,000 times.
You teach him to share, to understand that he is a luscious thing but also already in a world of things.
You pocket the stones and sticks that dazzle him, and you acknowledge the bugs and his wonder of them when he asks you to.
You help him draw his first map of life, the small, timezoneless continent from bedrooms to kitchen to the swings in the park.
You cut his hair in the kitchen, his feet kicking beneath the chair. You see him look older, like a person.
