Shabbat rishon in through the looking glass.

He was born early on a Friday. That night we ordered grape juice and a dinner roll with my hospital meal to say kiddush and motzi over. Our voices faltered as we sang Shalom Aleichem, our son in my arms. We promised him that it usually sounded much nicer.

I woke up the next morning as the sun was rising, the golden halflight gently shaping the contours of my family’s peaceful faces. My son, asleep in his bassinet, and my husband, asleep on the couch behind him. How grateful I felt then. My happiest memory.