(From May 26, 2013 – Emerson was nine months old)
“I like the silent church before the service begins, better than any preaching.” RW Emerson
You wake again. Not the first time tonight, not the first night this week. The familiar walk to your room is heavy, grating, hazy. Really? Again? I immediately swoop you from your crib and cradle your head, hug your body. As you quiet, your lullabies re-emerge, transforming the room into an 11th century Gothic nave, rich with a small Gregorian chorus softly chanting. This is your bedtime music, the slow, soft organum running counterpoint to your cries until you drift off to sleep each night.
Despite the late hour, the chant’s perfect, steady unison loosens my fatigue and frustrations. Supporting your still weight, watching the moonlight turn your curtains into crimson stained glass, the moment stretches, distorts, lengthens. As if you are a supermassive black hole with infinite gravity, I am pulled into you, time and the space of me stretching and expanding towards your singular core. As the portraits on the wall become immortal saints and your nightlight fans out and up in white, luminous wings, I feel this moment holy. Sacred. Divine. No words could bring me here, no church, no silent pleas—only your skin on mine, featherlight breaths, your darkly splayed eyelashes, and a love eons in the making—a love coded into the very essence of us, just waiting for you, me, and the moonlight in this moment.