In the quiet hours of December mornings, I stumbled upon a secret world: the moments just before sunrise over the North Carolina mountains. Perched in a rocking chair facing east, those fleeting moments carved out of the chaos of life felt like a precious, intimate encounter—just me and little Charlie, witnessing the night shades of charcoal and inky navy give way to the faintest hint of the sun’s first rays.
Slivers of silver light pierce the darkness, transforming the room. Pinks and soft grays soften and then sharpen the view of treetops, the curves of the mountains framed perfectly by the picture window. My littlest grandson wraps his tiny hand around my finger, and memories of my own daughters as newborns come rushing back. I remember watching them, wondering who they would become. Those days were wrapped in a fog of exhaustion, yet the mothers and grandmothers always insisted: Savor this fleeting moment. Carve it into your memory. Inhale its essence, and it will imprint upon your heart.
The house is quiet, my phone out of reach—no emails, no headlines, no distractions. The only sounds are the soft snuffling of a tiny human’s breathing and the barely perceptible creak of the rocker filling the room. His head fits perfectly in the crook of my arm, and the soft, milky scent of his newborn skin rises like a delicate wisp, grounding me in this moment.
I’m not normally a sunrise kind of person. For most of my life, being awake during these wee hours meant existential dread, a horrible early flight, or, once, fire alarm batteries chirping in unison. But for these few weeks, with a swaddled infant nestled against my chest and the dog snuggled tightly next to my hip, sunrise feels like an unexpected gift.
The privilege of rocking my grandson through those first two weeks is something I will always treasure. Yes, I changed diapers, cleaned, cooked, shopped, walked the dog, and fetched countless items. But in those early morning moments, it was just the two of us, watching the sunrise in our little magical cocoon. Sunrise, like the newborn stage, doesn’t stay still for long. As the light strengthens, the soft intimacy of dawn gives way to the sharp edges of a waking household. The baby shifts and stretches as if sensing the awakening. Soon, I’ll reluctantly hand him over to his parents and re-enter the whirlwind of life. There will be coffee to brew, bagels to toast, trash to take out.
Some moments are meant to be held close—unshared and unfiltered. I resist the temptation to capture the morning light by snapping a quick photo to edit, filter, and upload. Instead, I’m reminded that the best light seeps in gently, illuminating everything it touches before yielding to the clarity of day. And so, I hold on a little longer, savoring this quiet gift before the world demands its due.