There

Every night she has this habit of placing her head in the palms of my hands to fall asleep. There, in her crib. Me sitting in front of it, reaching through the bars. She places her head right there, feeling the warmth, smelling the skin, sensing the connection. The vivid chatter slows to a trickle. After some minutes one might think she is asleep.

Every now and then she moves her eyelashes. My hands feel it. Like little greetings from the wakeful state they signal the ongoing intense processing of a long day. There, in the dark room. After a full day.

Every now and then she utters some words. Words of her own making. Words with her own meaning. The air is dotted with a few familiar ones, too. Like little stars. There, in the dark room. After a full day.

Every now and then she says Papa, says Mama. And again: this lump in my throat. Mentioning us as some protagonists of her day. Speaking with such affection in her sweet, bright voice that I hadn’t thought possible for the intonation of a 1.5-year-old. And then she comfortably turns her head again. In my hands. There, in the dark room. After a full day.

Every night I have this habit of reflecting on the immensity of all the moments I experience with her. Some days it feels like a drowning. A pleasant one, vibrating with the fullness of life, affection, exuberance. Yet it is also a drowning in the unfair impossibility of storing all these moments as memories in my mental archive. There are hundreds of life’s most meaningful memories each day. Yes! Pictures are taken. Videos recorded. Ultimately memories made. But nothing would come close to the ability of storing every moment, accessible for future enjoyment, future reference, future delight. There would be hundreds – no! – thousands of memories inside my head, waiting to be revisited. There, in the dark room. After a full day.