a part of me is like malik

a part of me is like malik

july 4, 2025

When I finish editing  
and realize I only took twenty photographs that day,  
a little weight drops in my chest.  

It’s not about the number.  
It’s the feeling that seeing is over.  
That I already lived it  
and now I’m being asked to move on.

A part of me is like Malik.  
I don’t want the day to end either.

He resists sleep with a toddler's brilliance.  
I resist endings by scrolling backward,  
hoping I missed a moment,  
hoping there’s still one more light,  
one more frame that slipped by unseen.  

The photos are proof I was present.  
But the ache for more moments,  
that’s proof I loved it.

Some days only offer twenty.  
Some, even less.  
But the desire to keep looking,  
to stretch time,  
to stay inside the warmth of the day,  

that’s the part of me still learning  
how to hold on  
without holding too tight.

Last night I went to sleep at 2:30 a.m., resisting,  
making a collage of his photos  
to celebrate his 1-year birthday.  

I was thankful  
he pulled off one of his longer sleep stretches —  
eleven hours.  
He woke at 9:45 a.m.  
and the day began again.

I do it too because I know Sarah loves to see them.  
Her shared enthusiasm is fuel.  

I don’t just make the collage for him.  
I make it for her too.  
Because her joy when she sees it  
reminds me it was worth staying up for.  
Her eyes confirm the moment mattered.  
That shared awe becomes the reward.  

It keeps you awake longer.  
Softer.  
More grateful.