Tiny waffles on tiny plates

It's the little moments.

The early, still-dark morning time wake ups,

Henry with his arms reaching, reaching, baby, toddler, all in one.

The oatmeal, the toast, the waffles, the jam.

Orange juice and milk. Tiny cups and bowls.

I often think about how quickly everything goes by, so I try to hold on,

hold onto all the little moments in these days.

One day when time has gone by I'll look at my own waffles on my own plate and think about my babies-now-grown, think back to tiny waffles on tiny plates, little arms and little hands, books and trucks and blocks and bears, and the way the sunlight came in through that top window, the way it warmed up that sliver in the still-dark-morning,

and remember.