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Can We Pause Forever?

The three year old calls, awakened (so she says, I don’t think she’s slept) by a nightmare. I get up from the computer and walk into her dark room lit only by the glowing nightlamp that sits beside her bed.

“I need more snuggles,” she says, earnest. I move over her to the far side of the bed and lay down, my arm wrapped around her and the covers. She’s so small, there’s lots of room for me. She puts her skinny arm over my neck as I press my forehead to hers and breathe in that soft, sweet, sun-drenched child smell. Once it was the sweet baby smell, the smell of milk and warmth that I can barely recall.

I close my eyes and feel the warmth of her forehead against mine, the tangled curls of her hair tickle the sides of my face. When I open them again the glow of the nightlamp illuminates her. I kiss her miniature upturned nose, and caress her tumbled curls.

Before I rise to continue my work, I wonder – how can I hold this moment close when she has grown and gone away?

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