Yesterday, a little baby came home. Soft and pink, tiny rounded lips and fingers, delicate to hold, with full, chubby cheeks and soft, brown hair.
He was the highlight of the family-gathering last evening, banging plastic bags and wanting you to place him on the table and hold his hands high, so he could dangle and jump. His mother said he was not very fond of too much attention from strangers, and if you looked at him too curiously, he’d start to cry.
But yesterday, I did look at him curiously, smiling and nodding my head, dabbing the tip of my finger on his cheek. And at the back of my mind, I was wondering about the little wonder boy, who was so much in a haste to see the world, that he was born weeks earlier than predicted, who survived a lot of complications because of that, and whose chirpiness and good health eventually eradicated all his parents’ worries. He had given his parents and his grandparents a new, ever-delightful life, a brand new role to play. The little pearl-eyed boy was nothing less than a miracle, I thought.
And even as I was thinking, the most magical thing happened.
He smiled at me, and held my finger between his tiny fingers. In that innocent blooming smile, in that tender hold of his fingers, I melted.
The little wonder boy swept me off my feet.