Tonight, as Eric dozed on the sofa of my new apartment, I found myself rising repeatedly from my work to replace the blanket he kept discarding in his sleep.
Gently re-enfolding his half-naked body in the cover filled me with a dutiful sense of satisfaction. The dim glow from my desk lamp seemed to consecrate each ritual bundling, reminding me of when he was just an infant wrapped in swaddling cloths.
I tell you that these momentary, intermittent interludes brought me pleasure that felt deep and timeless. It was as if we existed purely in the moment, untouched by all other concerns. And that, whether in our brief shared past or in a thousand imagined futures, I would always be his father. And he would always be my son.
