His hair smelled like the back yard. And he curled up so still in my arms, the recliner squeaking with every rock but I kept on, thinking any moment he'd jump up and be off. Legs hanging over the sides but he stayed. Flashess of feelings of when he was new, when he was two, and then they would slip from my reach. Holograms. Flickers of a distant memory and his lashes hit my cheek, I caught him looking up at me and back down again.
By Stephanie Precourt,