I am sitting, thumb-typing on my iphone, in the darkness of 2:00am.  My sleeping son is resting his sweet velvet head on my shoulder.  I should put him down; allow him to sleep better, allow myself to maximize my own sleep in these endless days in which sleep is so elusive.  But I can't.  I'm not yet able to separate my breath from his scent or my heartbeat from the rhythm of his baby panting breaths against my neck.

I am struck by the words of a friend, who reminded us, in the weeks before the boy's arrival, that life is divided into seasons.  Some we lament as they pass too quickly, others we endure as they move with the speed of an iceberg.  I know that this moment is frozen in a season.  A way too short season of cuddling my son in the silent wee hours - which is, magically, the exact same length of this very long season of interrupted sleep cycles and bleary eyed mornings.  This notion of the seasonality of life fills me with nostalgia for the seasons that have already passed - and angst for wanting to hold on to The Boy's seasons as tightly as I can.  Savoring them.  Elongating them.  Memorizing every second because I know that I will someday shed real tears when I miss the smells and textures of these sweet days.

I wish I could revisit the seasons of pure breathless laughter as I am tickled by my father or the smell of my grandmother as I sit in the comfort and safety of her lap.  They are snapshots in my senses now, of places that have been eroded by time.  I miss them with an ache that I know is but a twinge compared to how much I will miss this moment right now: sitting in the the peaceful darkness, with my son's heart beating right on top of my own.  His father's deep sleeping breaths providing the harmony to complete the symphony of all that is sacred and pure in my life.  We are floating along, on this warm raft of our bed, in the sweet smelling night of a future memory.