Down Pillows

I was pulling on my pants and shirt, having just gotten out of the shower.  Torpedo, my three year old son, burrowed in and out of the down stuffed linens on my wife's and my bed.  "I found you!" he smiled, his cobalt eyes peering out between the creme colored comforter and one of the mismatched white pillows.  

He quickly disappeared again under the layers of coziness.  Then he popped up again, "I found you!" he repeated.  I couldn't resist.  I threw myself into the puffy fray, rubbed his fuzzy blond hair (he was growing out a buzz cut) and we play-wrestled.

There's nothing quite as luxurious as play-wrestling in a small, bed-sized pond of down with a smiling, squealing child.

After a few minutes I pulled him across my chest and just held him, his small boy chest laying on mine.  Inhaling.  Exhaling.  I stared out the window at the gloomy rain and snow turning to slush.  I thought how important it is to hold those we care about, and how lucky we are when they let us.

Torpedo is a rowdy boy and loathe to be still for too long, so I just lay there and thought, "This is a moment worth remembering."