Balancing Act

He's 23 months old. His eyes squint and his nose wrinkles as he smirks up at me from underneath his mop of dark black hair. He's perfect. He has myofibroma - a benign tumor in his right arm. Two days ago he had his right arm amputated at the shoulder. The suture line where the arm used to be is impressive: purple and blue and healing. He sits crookedly in his crib, unable to get his balance quite right, as he searches with his left hand for an arm that isn't there. And his nose still wrinkles as he smirks up at me. And he is perfect. Still. And he will find his balance, I am sure.