Thoughts In The Night

When I let my mind wander in the quiet of my dark bedroom, as I rock my Huckleberry in his tight swaddle and look out over the twinkling New York City apartments, I feel convinced that our babies must be made up of little slices of our very own souls, slices that we unwittingly part with when we feel those first stirrings of maternal longing. How else to explain how so very familiar he is, how much I feel I've known him all along?

Maybe I know him because he is part of me, fitting tightly into a space within that was carved to perfectly fit his form?

Or perhaps we are merely souls reunited after a long separation. As I sway in the darkness, his head under my chin, I wonder what we talked about before this. I wonder if I promised him that I'd find a way to bring him to me, even if it was difficult, even if it seemed impossible. Or did he reassure me that he would always be there waiting? I wonder now, as I look at his little helplessness, who really needs the other more.

It's obvious to me that he is mine, that he was supposed to be mine all along. Sometimes in the dark I imagine that on the day he was born the Universe shifted to correct for its imbalance.

Sometimes, as the lights from distant windows twinkle, I let myself believe there is no other being created who was better made to love this tiny person.