The equation

the equation

May 21, 2025

There’s a moment where he starts to laugh,  
but he’s still learning what laughter is.  
How it works.  
How it feels when it builds in the chest  
and pushes through the mouth,  
like light through a curtain.

He looks up, eyes full,  
mouth already open,  
like joy got there first  
and language is still catching up.

And I think.  
If I had to write this down,  
if I had to trap the feeling with numbers,  
what would it look like?

Would it be:

f(t, l, s, r) = (μ × l + τ × s)^4 + γ × r

Where:  
t is time together.  
l is laughter per minute.  
s is softness of skin.  
r is the red of the blanket.  
μ is my attachment to all of it.  
τ is how memory works through touch.  
γ is the glow he carries when he doesn’t know I’m watching.

Maybe it doesn’t solve anything,  
but it explains something.  
About presence.  
About how something small  
can feel infinite  
when you pay attention.

He laughs again,  
not because it’s a joke,  
but because he’s alive,  
and his mother held him just right,  
and the moment said yes.

And the equation disappears.  
Like it should.