We are out walking in the desert, my son and me. It's going on sunset and above us a big full moon hangs in the vast open sky. Sam is running over the rough terrain, arms flying behind him toddler style, laughing at his own ability to cover ground. Puffs of dust rise up from the pounding of his feet as he moves. In my mind I see the whole world turning underneath him, propelled by the motion of his determined steps upon the earth.

This is one of those moments, the ones in which I feel the perfection of everything, a blissful contentment in my heart.

We went to see our tax person today. She has had another miscarriage since the last time we saw her. I sit in the straight back chair across the desk from her while Sam plays outside with his Dada. Propped on her keyboard is the photo of her with the tiny baby born so eary that she only lived for 42 minutes. The photo was there last year and somehow I thought she might have moved it by now, but there it remains, where every motion of this woman's hands, every glance at her keyboard, brings her into contact with the most precious 42 moments of her life.

I feel the weight of this while we talk about the mundane details of my financial life, how little I made this year, how many fairies and books sold, how is Sam. I want to cry but I don't, as I know she has cried enough. I want for her this dream that she has tried so hard to fulfill, spending tens of thousands of dollars and so many, many tears. I want to place a healthy, full term baby in her arms because I know that joy, and I know there has never been anything in the world that felt so wonderful to me.

And later, when Sam and I spend an interminable hour opening and closing the bathroom door over and over and over again, I am reminded how lucky I am to have this hour, this precious hour, however grumpy and tired I may be. I have this hour, this day, this life with this healthy, exuberant, boisterous, and fully alive little boy.

And now here we are, under the desert sky together. He is so full of life that I can almost here his energy crackling in the air from where I stand. The thinly gnarled fingers of a dried creosote bush reach out for him, snagging his ankles and yet he runs on, laughing at anything that would slow him down.

In 42 minutes everything about life and death can change, and I am grateful for this reminder, though it makes my heart heavy for my friend. Sometimes I feel so entirely underserving of this great joy. My 42 minute batches of motherhood come over and over and over again, all day every day and on into the sleep interrupted nights. Some are filled with crankiness and irritation, some are filled with a bliss I can hardly describe. Each increment of time with this child has made me more wholly a person, more wholly alive, more grateful, more real, more in love with the world.

I wish this for my friend, but in some ways I realize that she is that rare soul who had the ability to find it already in just the tiny moment she was given. She is a mama now, if only in a photograph, and still it matters more than anything that has ever been or will be.

When Sam tires and is ready to return, we walk back side by side, sometimes holding hands. When he turns and asks me to carry him the rest of the way, I lift him to me and wrap him in my arms, holding his warm little body close. He hugs back, laying his head on my shoulder and this is how we make our way back home together.