I’m with Brian Doyle’s closing words in his essay, Silence: “heart naked as a baby”.

It’s so visual, the baby wet and naked in the bath, the heart equally wet, moist, exposed.  I pause, look at my grandson’s baby pictures, a video of him lying on his back waving arms and legs, gurgling at the ceiling fan twirling above, breath, an extravagance rippling through his torso.  

Wonder wanders. Can my heart be “naked as a baby”, breath connecting the years?