small hands to hold

I am in my sister-in-law's bathroom, crying over photos that aren't mine. The woman is leaning against him, looking down, cradling wine in delicate fingers. And he is holding her below the breast, eyes bright, as if he has the sun beneath his palm. She warms him to the bone.

And I do not know whether I'm crying with happiness for them, filled to the brim with light spilled over, or with sadness for the ease in which they walk through life. No small hands to hold, no milk to be spilled, no messes to mop. The only bodies they must mind are their own, slowly in the morning, fingers finding forgotten places, and with fire at night, restless, wanting, aching, holding tightly. 

And then, I cry with sadness for them, for the lack of small hands to hold, the emptiness of her breasts, the waking in her womb, wondering, aching, wanting, bleeding, fit for holding but cannot hold tightly enough. Not now. Not yet. 

What a marvelously feeling time this is, postpartum. The entire world is moving beneath my skin.