I could take a picture, but it wouldn't be the same. I can write about it, I can describe the feeling of my first born son, laying on my chest as I rock him to sleep. He breathes deep, steady, and drools a wet spot on my shirt and we gently rock back and forth, back and forth. He is only 15 pounds, over double the weight he was when we brought him home, but so light. He is warm in his pajamas, and his breathe makes my neck warm. He likes to put his head right under my chin. Every now and then he shutters, and I think he is waking. He fits perfectly into my arms, so perfectly. I come close to falling asleep as some memory I no longer have of my own babyhood lulls me to sleep as if by instinct as well. Back and forth, he is asleep, but I keep rocking.
I can describe it, but it will never be the same, this is it. I have but a few minutes, a few hours to hold my first born son then he will be gone to the maturity that steals all babies from all parents. He is here, for a few minutes, asleep in my arms. In a short time I will try to remember the feeling of him when he could fit into my arms, and when a simple shusssshhhh in his ear is all that was required as a lullaby. I will miss this when its gone.
