I See You

You were five months old in this picture. I remember this evening. You tried to roll over, and with some help from me, you plopped down comfortably on your tummy. Then you gazed at the lights outside our hotel window. They held your attention much longer than TV shows. You stayed still, unmoving, but definitely entertained.

You are ten months old now. Sitting still is not an option unless you’re reading your many books. You like dashing across rooms in your walker. You crawl like a little bug eager to jump off a leaf. You can hoist yourself up in your crib, the playpen, the sofa, without difficulty. With some assistance, you can climb over pillows and bags and clothes piles and toys. The world opened up immensely when you discovered how to be mobile.

When I come home from work, your eyes light up brightly. I try to imprint that image of your wide smile and big eyes in my mind, my heart. It’s almost the same look on your face when you draw the curtains and see the world outside our bedroom window. There is splendor in your eyes, my son; a splendor I don’t see in anyone’s eyes anymore, a splendor I see only in yours.

We’ll be looking through more windows together — train windows, car windows, hotel windows, building windows, cottage windows. There is so much of the world to see. There is so much of the world I want to share with you.

Soon gazing out the windows just won’t do. With some help from me, or maybe none at all, you’d climb out, rush out, sprint, experience what lies outside that wooden frame. That world outside will hold your attention more than TV shows. Then it’ll be my turn to gaze outside our window. I’d stay still, and watch you, entertained.