Son's Hands
My son: golden hair, clear blue eyes, cherry lips, tiny fingers, chubby knees and a toothless grin. My son: with Tuor's features and my colours. He has Tuor's humour too.
He thinks I cannot see him crawling under the table. I sit, and before his little hand can latch onto my ankle with a hopeful scare, I sweep him off the ground, landing him on my knee.
He laughs, "Mama!"
My life will hereafter be separated into two halves, before Eärendil and after. I don't remember what joys there were before him.
I do not need to; I have Eärendil.
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