To My Firstborn at Midnight
I wake you gently at midnight.
And you yawn and stretch,
Your mouth widening into the imperfect “O” I suddenly remember from years ago,
When your limbs were not so long, your sleep not so solid.
When you were still so small you fit in my arms. And we spent minutes and hours in the glow of the hall nightlight.
Your face, grown, is still yours.
And your crooked yawn is the same.
And I can’t quite believe how heavy you have become as I pick up your slack, warm, lanky body that smells like spit, and sweet sweat, and blankets.
And I am glad. And tired.
Because the middle of the quiet nights with you are mine alone.
It will be years until another person knows your midnight yawn.
For now, it is all mine.