By Hanna Saltzman

April 24, 2023


My two-month-old wiggles on his tummy on a brightly striped blanket in our little urban backyard, trying to hold his head high while the weight of his rapidly growing brain pulls him to the ground. He is suspended in tension. His eyes are shimmering lakes of grays and blues, absorbing all that he sees above: chipped paint the color of clouds, an arcing sparrow, summer sunlight dancing the polka on leaves of ivy draped across his sky. His weight pulls him down, while his awe pulls him up. Wonder spreads his eyelids, white crescents curving above his irises, newborn moons that magnetize the tides of me. He sees without the constraints of words, without the grief of thinking of what once was or what might become, without the heaviness of meaning.

He finds my eyes, which are pulled by the awe of him. He searches into me as I search into him, in this rare time in life where two people can stare indefinitely at one another with absolutely no self-consciousness, without having to make an excuse for why we want to look. We look and look at each other until his aching neck eventually drifts to the earth, his eyes forced to follow. Rest, I tell him silently, these words I try to tell myself: Rest on this beautiful earth, and do not fear, the sky will be here when you have the strength to look up again.


Hanna Saltzman lives with her baby and husband in Salt Lake City where she works as a pediatric resident physician. You can read more of her writing at


Image by sunsetoned courtesy of Pexels

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