In the quiet of my dark bedroom, as I rock my Huckleberry in his tight swaddle and look out over the twinkling New York City apartments, I start to wonder if maybe our babies are made up of little slices of our very own souls, slices that we unknowingly part with the first time we feel the stirrings of maternal longing. He feels so familiar to me, and in a strange way it seems like I've known him forever.
I wonder if know him because he is part of me? Fitting perfectly into the space I carved for him during all those years of waiting.
Or maybe we are spirits that have reunited after a long separation. As I sway in the darkness, his head under my chin, I wonder if we were, and if so, what we talked about. I wonder if I promised him I'd find a way to bring him home, even if it was difficult, even if it seemed impossible. Or was it the other way around? Maybe he reassured me that even though it would take a while, that he would be there waiting. I sometimes wonder, even as he is so helpless, who really needs the other more.
It is so obvious that he is mine, and that he was supposed to be mine all along. Sometimes in the dark I imagine that on the day he was born the Universe shifted to correct for its imbalance.
As the lights from distant windows twinkle and the night gets later he finally drifts to sleep. I am so glad I fought. And so grateful he waited.




















