Twenty-seven months, with a speech delay,
my son has not started calling me dad. 
But he acknowledges me anyhow. 

For instance, lately, when he wakes upset
at 3am, I am often the one
he reaches out to in the pre-dawn dark.  

Most of the time, a soft pat on the back
and some reassuring words would suffice
to comfort him, but earlier this week

he was so distraught, for reasons 
we will never know, that I took him 
from his bed and held him sitting in a recliner.

Curled in my lap, his face burrowed against
my chest, he quickly drifted off again, 
maybe soothed like he was as an infant

by the steadfast heartbeat next to his ear,
a pulse whose regular cadence contrasts
with all the rapid, sporadic changes

he has experienced in his short life –
development a source of excitement
and also, by virtue of it being

unpredictable, fear and frustration
for children as well as parents. Grateful
that he was calm and resting, glad to be

his chosen refuge, I was distracted 
from my consternation at how he lacks
verbal expressiveness. His relaxed form,

the gentle heave of his body with each 
sleeping breath, his small hand beside mine: these
were enough to ease my mind for a while.