You are holding a baby and your whole face has gone soft. I have never seen your face do that.
You are being so careful. One hand under the head, like someone told you that part matters most, and you believed them. You are barely breathing. You keep looking down like the baby might disappear if you blink.
I used to hold my stuffed rabbit like this when I thought it was scared of the dark. You said I was silly. You are not being silly now.
Is it heavy? It looks so small. But you are holding it like it weighs more than anything. Like it is the most important thing you have ever been trusted with.
You said you were never going to have kids. You said they were loud and gross and you would rather have a dog. I remember. You said it a lot.
But look at you.
You are humming. I know that hum. That is the one Grandma used to do, the one you said you forgot.
You did not forget.
I thought you stopped being gentle. I thought that got lost somewhere with all the other stuff. But it was just waiting in your hands the whole time, folded up small, saving itself for this.
Can I ask something? When it wakes up, will you show it the moon? Will you tell it the moon follows the car?
I hope you tell it the moon follows the car.