Sometimes it is all too much goodness, the way the eleven year old laughs at the dinner table until he can’t get his breath. The way the nine year old can be so earnest that his heart seems held out in his small hands. The way the mint spills gloriously over the edge of the pot and those little white seeds made blossoms and beans. The way the shutter clicks and I’m given back a moment over and over, that I can hold as close as I need to, for as long as I want. The way a well-written character can place her hands on either cardboard cover of a book and vault herself out of it, to walk around with me until the last page sighs closed. The way baking powder rises and yeast rises and basil, chopped, releases its perfume upward.
The way I can set my feet firmly in Friday, no backward shoulder glance, no eyes shaded forward, for once, once, and there are too many little light-footed blessings to count, doing a pattering dance around the space where I stand.