We push the chair up to the window, pull and lock the blinds as high as they will go and we sit there together, behind the glass, and watch; just her and me and the lights. We look for minuscule eruptions to appear out of the black, searching a sky which became absence itself several hours ago and which will remain black and absent for several hours yet. Only a few flares rise and wail before us. She sits on my lap, deadly still and in mock-pretend terror. I hold her close and tight and we sit there and make time stretch for longer than has seemed possible for a time which seems too long to recall. Maybe it was six or so months ago that I last held her like this, on the edge of her bed, as she leaned into me and drifted, still and so slowly, towards sleep. And it might have been a year before that that I now so vividly remember – holding her tightly, with the low light of morning upon us, juggling with saucepan and milk carton and her bottle. I remember her weight then – so accurately knowing how long I could hold her like that with ease, and how much longer under strain; and then, beyond that, for absolutely as long as she needed to be held, because I could never not hold her in my arms if it was the wrap of my arms that she needed. Her weight then and her weight now and the fizzle and shift of these feathers of light in the sky – that is both there and not there – all these things so small and yet so huge: everything locked into this embrace. Our gaze and concentration together; our wonder; the dark and the room and our place within that room connecting with reawakened memories of seconds and minutes from months and years previous. For her, my arms around her; for me, her within my arms.