Just after midsummer, a new baby will be born.
Love penetrates the heart before the eye discovers. Already,unknowing, I have selected a fine, wide cloth, now waiting adornments. The tapestry as yet unknown.
Joy, anticipating him….
I cherish his velvet skin, delicious, pure for so brief a time. The tiny fist so tightly clenched inspires the effort of living. His baby smell, effervesced, but still sublimely sweet, exhilarates.
Hair matted against his face, heat of day too much; his sweat, as all his little life, extreme.
Whispers of wind, (or call of birds? ) rattle giggles from him. His busy, boundless journey remains singular, for a time.
He and I do not share blood, or cells or chromosomes.
But he is kindred, still.
Will the unspawned babes of my own young grow up with him, grasping vibrant mantle of childhood in accord? Will attic rooms reverberate each season once again, snickers, shrieks recalling silly scenes of the holiday table? Will summer tents contain their giggles and their shouts when scary stories are unleashed in the darkened wood? Will they join with him, the oldest one, when they denounce the demons of the life they find themselves confronting?
Or will this baby merely be, first, the infant,then, the child, and finally, the man I love dearly from afar, whom I know not well enough to fill my life?
Time holds the answer and it will be one way or other other.
Now I apprehend his weight, his warmth, the soft pattern of his breathing.
The reminder, once again, that we can be our best selves, sometimes, when we allow ourselves to simply live.