That Heartbeat

For many reasons too complicated and menial to discuss, I picked up the kids from school today in the rain. In the stroller, in the rain.

Because of that rain, I left the stroller under the awning and not in its usual place next to the door. I left the kids at the top of the stairs in front of the school to get their gear into the double jog stroller before getting them strapped in.

I turned around because in the instant it occurred to me that LittleMan might not wait for me, he started down the steps. The concrete steps.

I took a step matching the one he took. Except his foot never solidly hit the next stair.

He tripped. Head first, he started that slow tumble forward.

In the heartbeat between what could have been and what happened, I reached him. I cupped the side of his head with my right hand.

My hand hit the concrete. His face did not.

I aged twenty years in that heartbeat. That heartbeat between trauma and miracle.

I don't know how I made it to him in time. I have theories, but that is a discussion for a more personal space.

Tonight, I am weary. I kiss my son's soft cheek and inhale the smell of him. Somewhere mixed in the tangy scent that is boy and baby, I close my eyes and am grateful.