at the breakfast table.

i sip thick and piping coffee and set a record to spin (choral carols, carols in brass). he tells me where he went in his dreams and the stories of his deep little soul. i offer scoops of oatmeal with bananas and maple. he feasts with gusto, doe eyes peering up at me through feathered, golden lashes, nose scrunching as he giggles and grins, dimpled hands drumming a love song from the tap of a spoon. every three or so nibbles, he twists in his seat to gaze out the window at the city, the world, the cosmos beyond. i study, admire, memorize every last bit of his every little thing, quietly naming and tucking and storing these hours, the holiest i have known, in the attic of my memory. i notice how my heart beats slowest, here. i wonder if he can feel it (how deep and boundless my love stretches, how happy i am to spend my life this way), and i know: impossible. i think of what to call this feeling, and i decide: peace. 

then begins our morning song: it's another day to be together, and we're off to do a million beautiful things.