One.

I remember when I buckled you into your car seat for the first time, heading home from the hospital. I thought, slow down, remember this. By the third time around, I knew already.

It goes way too fast.

Last summer, I sat with you asleep against my chest, feeling the high and trying to memorize all of it. The weight of your body against mine, the astonishing scale of your toes, the slope of your nose. I took so many pictures, as though frozen in time could be the same as freezing time. It’s not.

I was right here the whole time. I watched, so the pot wouldn’t boil. But I must have looked away, because suddenly you’re a boy. Almost. The gummy smile became an impish grin. The velvet baldness now replaced with wispy hair. You’re almost talking, almost walking, almost in college. Almost.

It goes way too fast.

But I’m loving every minute of it. Happy birthday, Zev.

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