When you have a newborn, time blurs like grass beneath your swing. Four days to four months to four. Hours move slowly. Looping, knitting themselves into an endless stream. Dreamlike because of exhaustion, and the desperate sort of love you wade in.
I ached for the time when my children were small as I watched Anna and her Gus - swinging him slowly, gingerly, tender - like a bare beating heart on her sleeve. Never more than a fingertip between them, his palms clenched and twisting fistfuls of hair. Molding to her any-which-way. It's a wonder how so many minutes of deep, silent, wordlessness can speak so loud and clear.