I hold your almost four-year-old body.
Not so small anymore,
but not so big.
A familiar, rhythmic quake.
A small, audible squeak.
The shock wave of hiccups
shake your frame every few seconds.
In an instant, I am transported
to a time where I felt those little jolts
come from inside,
tiny, quick spasms
disrupt the peace of my mountainous belly.
In this tender moment,
there is fresh grief:
I think I will miss every iteration of you
for the rest of my life,
even while holding
the latest and even lovelier version
close to your first home.
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