My son pulled my arm to his chest in his sleep, his tiny hands loose but firm in their intent, his breath falling neatly in puffs in the cup of my hand. A year and still there are moments small and new. And I put this away in my memories: a thing to recall when my abdominals ache under his weight and the stretch of the girth of the burden of his sibling, when my hips are pained but I dare not even turn in bed if I do not wish to see him wake, when I fret and worry about what it might be like with two so young. Breaths in the palm, first tentative steps, a lopsided smile cocked to the same angle as mine. Sometimes it's all easy. Sometimes.

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