A moment.

Given the past few evening's come aparts-- mine, endured by my family, loving me despite them -- these precious stolen minutes home alone are a gift. Rarely am I alone, rarely am I allowed to wade into quiet and solitude. It's a season.

A season of being the sole income earner, of being the adult-living-hours-away-daughter of a very ill parent. Of traversing sans child across the plateau for weekends mothering my mother, cooking pots of soup (some for now, some for the freezer,) grading papers at their large kitchen table while talking with my brother and sister. A season of Harry Potter read nightly, of my drifting off while its read aloud by the man who knows me so well, snugged up to the child who knows my warmth as his own. Of one hundred thirty eleven and twelve year old children in and out of my classroom for reading instruction and bandaids and hugs and calls home, of tens of boogery noses all at once and the smell of cigarettes and raging hormones clinging to their hair and skin and winter coats. A season of learning a job and feeling barely adequate many days. Of preparing meals and writing plans, procuring library books and Ninjago spinners, A season of scrimping and salvaging, of afternoon commutes across town and meetings and Cub Scouts and more meetings and sometimes women friends with whom I laugh and cry....  and the boys coming in now....

And so.

Here. They. Are. The two loves of my life. My man, and my boy.



The moment is over.