I'm writing this on my phone. I know, weird. An electronic postcard. We live in a marvelous age. My son is up to feed again. These days 3 am is as silky and known as its sun-slanted 3 pm counterpart, only quieter, except for his breathing, which is the only sound between the heater's irate roars. We use this time to dream of the future. His eyes closed, mine open. Him forward-looking to the twin miracles of speech and mobility, me looking back at the pinkish, rooting kitten he'd been just months ago, weeks, when opening his eyes took all his concentration.
We both know the future is coming. Hell, it's already here. Electronic mail materializes into a virtual mailbox almost instantaneously. We rewind live football games to make our own replays. Tomorrow my son will turn himself from back to front. The next day he'll drive into the horizon with a promise to return by Thanksgiving with laundry in a mesh sack. Now will be long gone, except for this postcard, which will still be frozen at 3:52 on a Sunday morning, all the day's football yet to be played.
He is finished eating but here we'll sit a little longer, breathing, his eyelids rippling with all he already knows.
Until next time,
Katie and Milo
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