07 December 2018
i was on my hands and knees scrubbing cream of wheat from the floor under the white birch table and i noticed how francis splays his feet as they dangle from his perch. his kingdom.
they look like wings, and they just might be.
and i was thinking maybe this is what love is: doing the smallest thing imaginable -- cleaning up after breakfast, lighting candles for even the simplest of suppers, folding the family wash, scribbling the weekend grocery list, hanging up your husband's raincoat, making coffee before he wakes, reaching for his hand in the car, stealing a kiss in the aisle at ikea, drawing baby's warm bath in the morning, soothing him all night long if he needs you to, singing the song he loves most, singing it again -- and thinking it the greatest thing you could ever do. thinking it the loveliest way you could spend your one life. thinking if it is the very last thing you ever do wrapped inside the last breath you ever take, it is enough. thinking it is everything there ever was or is or could possibly be. thinking it is even more than that.