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Hangin' with my hound

Monday, March 29, 2010


Every day I walk past it. The wicker quaint...speaking of days when there was sufficient time. Someone sat down and wove that basket, worked in a slight pattern near the top and tucked in all the sharp edges. Once upon a time it may have had a ruffled set of linens.

When we used it, though, we kept it plain; the glossy white finish clean and simple.

Looking at the old bassinet I try to get back to those early days. Is there anything like the time with a newborn baby? Our tiny son... securely wrapped in his bunny rug. Tucked up, full of milk and sleeping at last. It was at once as though he had always been with us – and at the same time as though he were a fantasy.

I used to sit bolt upright in the night. What is that? Silence?

Out of bed to check on the precious bundle, breathing quietly for once. Touch him, his warm, compact body, his dear little mass. The size of heaven. What is the drug of the newborn? Everything feels so particularly right.

We stood over him, willing him to wake so that we could pick him up. He’s a big boy now... but sometimes I long for those days and nights when the tender weight of him in my arms was treasure.

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