In a few months I'm sure I'll have more to say, little pea. I've got no doubt that then in fact I'll ramble on, giddy as a clown. I'll lose my inhibitions as soon as you, for your part, have shed the omniscience of the womb.

You'll be a baby, proper, then; your spit-up and cranky screaming, your prized gassy smiles, will assure me at last that you are like me: hope and sinew, flesh and bone. And then between farts and giggles (yours and mine) I'll tell you the things I've never found words to say - not to anyone - and you will look up and laugh and tug at my beard, or cry because perhaps for a minute I am holding you too tight.

I can't say those things to you now, Pea. Not yet. You're too big to me, too mighty, too intimate with Mystery. You're too pure, too God-sprung. It's intimidating, Pea. When I look at the galaxy glowing at your side, your traveling companion while you're busy sprouting toes, how can I not wonder how Fischer Price, much less your bumbling dad, will be able to compare?