A father celebrates the gift of a child in his embrace

I can hear his snoring as I turn the knob and enter.

There he rests, ensnared in the blankets like a fly trapped in a spider’s web.

His face is serene. His eyes are half-open, as are his lips, exposing gums where a pair of front teeth once protruded only a few short weeks ago.

I whisper to him, “C’mon, puppy, it’s time to go pee.”

My words penetrate the universe beyond sleep, where I imagine that the ancestors gather and soar like fall-crisp leaves caught in a gust of autumn wind.

He, still sleeping, gives his body over to me.

I lift him from the tangle of bed sheets and cradle him against my body.

He, in turn, moulds himself against me in a way that only well-loved children know.

We move over the dark wasteland of discarded Lego blocks and dinosaurs, down the welcoming silence of the hallway and into the dimly-lit bathroom.

He stands before the toilet and yawns.

He stoops to push down his pyjama bottoms.

The movement is smooth, practised. The nightly ritual is familiar to him — so familiar, in fact, that he never once opens his eyes.

Urine spurts out like water from a malfunctioning garden hose.

The waste bin, bathmat and my house slippers bear the pungent mark of his errant aim.

His task complete, he pulls up his pants, turns to me and waits to be lifted up.

As we leave the bathroom (with his still-warm urine now moistening my toes), I pause briefly to look at our reflection in the mirror.

The orange glow of the nightlight illuminates his face.

He is beautiful. Beautiful and effortlessly perfect, in the way that full moons, forests and sunsets always are.

This gift is my child.

I feel the fireflies dancing in the pit of my stomach and revel in the steady rhythm of his breath on my neck.

Slowly, quietly, I lower him onto his bed.

He tucks his knees into his chest as I place the blanket over his body. With this final action, our nightly ritual ends.

I lean over him and gently kiss his forehead. He stirs as the hairs of my beard brush against his cheek.

The moment passes and he returns to the grove of untrammelled innocence that flourishes beyond the reach of fear and pain.

I stand, looking at him. Then I turn and leave.

It is now 2:32am. I return to my seat in front of the computer.

My eyes, like storm clouds pregnant with the promise of rain, are full of tears.

Colwyn Burchall Jr, is a freelance writer based in Toronto. He is the author of two children’s books, ‘Look for Me in the Whirlwind: A Story of Marcus Garvey’ and ‘Freedom’s Flames: Slavery in Bermuda’ and ‘The True Story of Sally Bassett’. He holds a Masters degree in Literacy Education from Mount Saint Vincent University. He is currently completing his third children's book, entitled ‘Dame Lois: The People’s Advocate’, tentatively scheduled for publication in December.