in which we find that love is almost all that matters. in which we know if we are apart, we are not divided. in which we remember who we are. in which we break free of each other, body of oldest, and cleave tightly, body of youngest. the rhythms of life become the deepest comforts and if travels are thrilling it is because the sanctuary of love comes wherever we go. grandmothers teach toddlers to use cameras. fathers in law give beautiful bikes to their daughter in law, who rides fully sunblocked and glassed through the suburban streets with the wild nine year old of her past sitting on the handlebars. old friends who were children when we met have babies, and our children hold those babies. fathers kiss their daughter's necks until they squeal with delight. sons demolish our hearts with pride and daughter's demolish our hearts with pride and parents and children become best friends in the end.
in which we find that nothing even close to the worst has happened, and all joy comes flying untrained, unrestrained and unnetted through that glass window
which one day will shatter
but for now!
there is the summer and there are the children and there is family and there are friends and the wet grass and running past horses and wide California skies with no clouds and ten books from the thrift store and ice cream from Thrifty's and piles of novels and biographies from the thrift store and cartoons in the morning and iced coffee and netflix and yoga in the evening and grasshoppers on the window screen and freckles and music and huge pillows and soft cotton sheets and bathing after swimming and eating after swimming and the pet store and pizza and and donating to dead teenage boys for their funeral * because they never had a chance to have any days filtered through this glass window,
the one that i see in the face of those i love, each one of them, breathing and crying and learning and failing and laughing and sleeping and waking and eating and moving and living.
in which we find that although one day is a day we all find on our calendar, we will always have now, if we will only stop and be here.
* here's Tyler's story and how to donate