In the early mornings when you wake to nurse, you reach for me, half awake, turning, seeking the breast. It’s an instinctual-looking motion, needy but tender too.

Wonderful times with you now are at the start and close of each day – in the morning before we get out of bed you lie on your back and talk and smile – reaching for Daddy’s nose, my hair, grinning at the prospect of the day ahead. In the evening it’s at supper time. Your appetite is impressive – last night a whole bowl of rice cereal, a jar of of sweet potatoes and a half a jar of applesauce – and you take such pleasure in it. Pausing to smile at Gram, look out at the lake and the leaves, pound the table with exuberance.

You may – the jury’s out – have clapped yesterday. Papa clapped and you brought your hands together. Not a glimmer since, though.

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