The baby lay in his crib, snug in his one-piece yellow pajamas, his beloved blue-and-white-checkered cotton blanket bundled beside him. The baby stirred. Rubbed his nose with a fist that could just encircle his father’s finger. Blinked his blue eyes open. “Hi, Saul,” whispered Nick. The child’s brow wrinkled as the world came into focus. They heard the dog bark; the front door open and close; Juanita call out “Good morning” and Sylvia answer as she brushed her hair in the master bedroom. The nursery smelled of dried milk and damp diaper. Warm blankets. Saul struggled to his feet and padded along the slat walls of his crib toward “Da’y.” Almost there, the baby stopped, his attention transfixed by the sun streaming through the window. His tiny hand let go of the crib and opened to catch the light. The transient beauty of the moment welled inside Nick. His eyes glistened. In these middle years, he felt in his heart the knowledge that as a young man he’d found with his mind: that the cost of joy lies in the luck we inherit and the loves we embrace; that yesterday’s choices create today’s chances, and that each dawn gives us the terrible freedom to choose again, certain only that we have more to lose.
