The First Time You Reached for Me

It wasn’t when you were born.

Not when you first cried

or curled like a question mark

against my chest.

It came later—

quiet and unnoticed—

in the middle of a Tuesday

while I poured cereal and didn’t see

the way your tiny fingers

searched the air for mine.

I had been reaching for you since forever.

Through ultrasounds and night sweats,

through nursery walls I painted twice

just to get the shade right.

Through lullabies I hummed

even when my voice cracked like old wood.

But that day—

you reached for me.

Not out of instinct.

Out of choice.

And something cracked open in me

that no book had warned me about.

You chose me.

Clumsily. Gently.

With peanut butter on your lip

and sleep in your eye,

you chose me in the most ordinary way

that made my entire world

tilt a little softer.

I thought love was loud.

Turns out,

it also looks like cereal crumbs

and one hand reaching

without needing to be guided.

You won't remember that morning.

You’ll outgrow my lap,

my songs,

my hand.

But I will carry that moment—

the first one where you came looking

for me

as if I were home.