I’m sitting on the floor next to my six-week old grandson, Elias. He is sleeping, his arms stretched beside his head, hands in gentle clasps. The only movement he’s making is the rhythmic sucking of his pacifier. He looks completely relaxed, in a state of sublime repose.
His face is so sweet and pure, his skin, milky and clear. From the nose up he looks like daddy. From the mouth down, mommy. On either side of his perfect pucker are two small dimples. I think I could stare at him all day long.
As I look at him, (he’s starting to wake up, wiggle and fuss now), I see a little baby full of boyishness and life. I know him—his face and features—though I feel like I don’t yet know him. I can’t see inside him to know the little boy he is and the one he will grow into. Right now, I’m content to know what I do. I know he’s a miracle.