I loved how small her hands were next to mine. Her tiny fingers, tinier fingernails.
I loved the tiny details of her skin. Soft and malleable, waiting for her to grow into it.
I loved how small her head was, the tiny features of her nose.
I loved watching her sleep, the rise and fall of this tiny body, sleeping, dreaming, oblivious to the room, the world, nestled in my arms, comfortable.
I loved that I wasn't afraid to hold her.
She was the youngest baby I have ever met, born a mere eight days earlier, all six pounds, two ounces of her. As the others in the room chatted to her parents, I stared at the beautiful infant in my arms, the others perhaps not knowing that this was one of the only times I've ever held such a young human.
I thought of all the things that could have happened and thankfully didn't before she was both and about all the good things that may happen to her in her life and hopefully will.
She woke, her tiny arms and legs moving as she did so, her world expanding into sounds, shaped and colours. Her tiny eyes opened, her mouth smiled and she drifted back off for another few minutes. I was fascinated. New life fascinates me.
I held her in my arms, tenderly. Not broodily, but with more care, attention and love than I've felt in a long long time.