I thought he was asleep.
Heavy, measured breathing. Involuntary twitching of tiny arm muscles. His fifteen pound body given over completely to somniatic bliss and my right side is sweating under his PJs
Michael O'Brien's book has enraptured me. Sensory data is met with uninterested cerebral reception.
Without impetus, I turn my seeing from the pages to the crook of my arm: two dark, pure eyes meet mine.
He has been watching me.
What does he see? His face is expressionless and not blank; his eyes pierce and do not invade.
Is he looking for something? Trying to find a real father behind all the facades I've erected?
Our brows are 6, 8 inches apart.
Neither mortal coil moves.
Knowing no human awkwardness, his gaze is fearless. He fabricates no distraction to disengage and his innocence in challenging.
I cannot recall the last time I stared into someone's eyes for 180 seconds.
Pupils are too near the surface; Rods and cones measure only one dimension.
Father and son speak with eyes and hear with souls.
His curiosity quenched, or his quest fulfilled, pudgey eyelids collapse under their own weight.
Three, two, one.
"No Comments Yet" is not surprising.
ReplyDeleteWords seem obtrusive into this beautiful description of such a deep personal encounter between earthly father and son. Thank you for sharing, Philip; the possibilities for a great relationship between you two are endless. God is pleased that you have noticed to such depth, I imagine.
That's one of the big things I really would love to have answered when I get to heaven - to be able to know what babies are thinking. I am certain they know way more than we can imagine, but we can't communicate with each other here very well. So I have to resort to just hugs and kisses for now, and their thoughts are part of the big unknown.
ReplyDeleteYou, my dear, are a writer. (And a great Dad)
ReplyDelete