Originally written August 2021
Holding my son is the physical embodiment of love. An inchoate eros, simultaneously one with the more passionate expressions of sexual love and the embodied, energising form of it. A grounding love as opposed to the head spinning, hedonic love that led to his conception.
Holding him at times I feel a brief melancholy as I realise he won’t be a baby forever, that he will gradually carve himself away from me. I feel this despite every new phase, every new sound, noise, facial expression being my new favourite – superseding the last.
I feel as though I am physically holding time – and that despite his reassuring weight, his smell, the rhythm of his breathing, that time is slipping through my fingers.