This child, born much too early, used to fit perfectly on my forearm. I would nestle his head in my palm, and he would draw his legs in, rest his tiny feet against the crook of my elbow and sleep. I would stare at him and physically hurt with love for him.
Now he is a full foot taller than I am. He drives and plays guitar and makes me beautiful things.
Sometimes late at night I tiptoe into his room and peek at him, and no matter that he has changed, a tightening springs to my chest, a dull ache of love.