An ache lodges in my chest late summer. I long to drink in the blueness of the sky and treasure each cumulus cloud drifting overhead. I want to absorb all of the sunlit warmth my body can hold. I want to hold on to the cricket songs and bird melodies, the cicada’s thrum.
I don’t want to let go of morning coffee outside. Floating on water. Lazy mornings with my kids sleeping past 9 and nowhere to be or go.
Living this far north of the equator has something to teach me about holding joy loosely.
Glory. Glory. And gone . . .
So I give thanks for this moment.
That monarch perched on the yellow-and-red-flecked zinnia.
That gold finch swooping, flitting, chirping above the yard.
I give thanks for the sweetness of
my 9-year-old’s wet cheek pressed against mine;
the weight of this 10-year-old today, 11-year-old tomorrow’s head against my shoulder;
and the astonishing way this almost-14-year-old keeps leaving his little boy self behind somewhere in pictures and memories.
Inhale the gift of this moment, this sweetness.
This breath gradually loosens
Glory. Glory. Gone.