He’s feather-light, as every infant is. I stroke his wrinkled face and wonder how the emptiness that’s haunted me for years has left at last. I sense a fulness now that slipped my grasp, however hard I tried to chase it, that I always went without despite my righteousness. I sacrificed all that I had and was to be devout and still I ached alone. I often knelt on temple floors, hoping to feel while there the solace of God’s presence, but I felt his absence only, despite every prayer. Yet holding this small child, all longings cease. I’m satisfied. Lord, I depart in peace.
Beautiful