if the moment was a picture

If the moment was a photograph, it would be black and white. The black sky,  lit only by a handful of stars peeking through heavy clouds releasing soft snow into the sky. The highlights across the curve of his forehead and the bridge of his nose from the nightlight plugged safely into the corner of the room brightened his face enough for me to see his eyes were wide open, even though his body was still. The shadows danced as I rocked back and forth, back and forth interrupting the stream of light.

He’s so content to cuddle in these moments.  Why only in the dark of night, does he curl into my heart and sigh so softly?

If this moment was a photograph, it would be in color. Two little children, dressed in footed, flannel pajamas were standing at the window watching their father push snow around outside. The boy’s head barely peeks out over the bottom frame of the window, and I can’t be certain he sees anything. But when Chessa giggles and pounds on the window, he squeals and imitates his big sister.

From behind them, I wish so hard that I had my camera, so I could capture this memory. Instead, I clench my eyes and try to freeze the memory of their hair tousled by 12 hours of sleep, their tiny hands with the unmistakable roundness of baby and the gray sky, still releasing tiny snowflakes.

If the moment was a photograph, it would be worn and soft from many years of being held close and used as a bookmark. Pausing to take a breath and remember the time, the soft smiles, the light dancing in their eyes, the three of them with their heads close together.  Craig and Chessa are reading a book, using an overstuffed bear as a pillow, Cole weaves in and out of the story, crawling over his father and grabbing handfuls of his sister’s hair.  For just a moment, time freezes and finally, this time, I get the picture.