The bun was born with a little teeny pimple on his face. It was perfectly placed, like a starlet's beauty mark on his right cheek, a little white blemish on his fresh new skin. Pimples are at the least annoying, at the most gross, but this one had charm. Although I'm at a loss for words describing why I loved it, this tiny imperfection was a remnant of his life before he popped out. A different life to be sure: swimming in the dark, no eating, no pooping, no breathing. But during all this aquatic living, one little process was happening which would remain after he showed up. It was impermanent but lasting far longer than I would have thought, the last chapter of a gestation and birth which seems dreamlike now.
Over the last week I've watched as it rose to the surface, waiting for it to go. I suppose I'd been mourning in advance. And then, one morning, it was just gone. No by-your-leave, no notice, just gone. Now I look at his perfect skin and miss it.
As a consolation prize he's got cradle cap. But I've discovered it's much harder to be sentimental about crusty flakes in his hair than it is to be sentimental about a single pimple. Go figure.