My older son fell asleep on the sofa a few days ago. I could not believe my luck, as I sat on the other end of the sofa with his long legs draped over my lap, the same legs that have recently taken him to six feet tall. There he was all for me to cherish just for a moment, my son who is never home, never bored, never complains, never asks for much, never sees his future as anything but brightly lit. My almost sixteen year old son who walks with a dashing smile that melts the hearts of all around him, who takes his own beauty in stride, humbly. My son who wakes up at 5am to study for a test, since he says he is a dolt in the evening and cannot think, just like his mother. My son who now speaks three languages, who likes to build things with his hands and prefers reading novels in Italian. My son, the official dreamboat of his high school class, a title he would rather not have, my son who doesn't notice how many want to be in his orbit. My son who would rather play frisbee than video games, who packs granola bars and apples to eat on the top of the mountain, and who is so good with little children.
Here he was asleep in my lap once again, with his limbs every which way and his thick curly hair tousled over his eyes. The light came in through the window, and I, daring not move, could see it shine on his face, outlining the soft stubble on his upper lip. And there was a moment when he was once again a boy in my arms, the same boy who clung to his mother at all costs, who refused to be weaned, who would not tolerate being far from me. It was just a moment, as he soon opened eyes and said "ciao mamma, what's for dinner?".
It was the sweetest moment in time.