While a parent is never far from a newborn child, he is never close enough, either. Every night I hold Buxton and kiss him, pulling him to myself as if the distance between a hug were a hundred miles. Anna feels the same way. She tells me at least once a day that she could just eat him up, despite my advising against it.
This picture tells a story of closeness. If anyone held my face in the way I hold his here, there is no telling what I might do. Suffice it to say only a handful of people, if any at all, should attempt it. Yet here I hold Buxton not for any particular reason other than thinking up no better way in that moment to be nearest him.
He looks at the camera as if he knows something. I hold his face as if fixing his stare. Yet knowing neither to be true in that moment makes this image all the more memorable. This image shines light on a closeness no idea could capture, no hand could craft.
It is the closeness of a father and his son in a moment once lived and forever left where it was found, discarded for ten thousand more just like it.
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