He was supposed to be doing homework and I was supposed to be making dinner but nothing was more important than caricatures of garbagemen with gold teeth, swirly planets with two moons.
I can't draw very well so I watched him and wondered how could just one pair of hands hold so much grace?
I first saw those lips pressed up in an ultrasound photo. "He's got my lips!"
In his game of soccer I can't make out who is who. But then the way he runs, stands, raises his arm, beckoning. Wolfs a bacon and egg roll afterwards. Licks his lips, tilts his head, laughs right in the moment and isn't thinking about anything else other than the thing that is making him laugh in the moment. Every action, every inflection I know and love so deeply, etched into my brain and heart. We imprinted on each other like wild zebras.
The first night we spent together in hospital in the dead of night after everybody went home we just looked at each other like we were both in on the biggest secret. Because how could one tiny baby hold so much grace?
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Write to be understood, speak to be heard. - Lawrence Powell