It’s always them.
Henry first.. his new words and sentences and principle expression. His asks and observations, asking where my neighbor Jenny is.
Jack, and his startling intelligence. Like a little Kerouac, or mathematician, or something else. Like my father… or more. Hard to categorize. Pride isn’t what I feel or speak or reflect, but higher altitude. How rich and dimensional he is as a character. And that’s my son. My fortune, inexplicable, mythic, otherworldly composition.
Then my daughter.. I just can’t. The love of my life. If you know me, then you know. I can’t with her. I can’t write her. Not that I favor her over her brothers, but she’s my baby girl. Emma, little Ms. Austen.
To bed, thinking of them.. and how they’ll all THREE be with ME. Mom and Dad coming over tomorrow night to spend time with their grandbabies … crazy, I know. The love I feel is multitudinous and cumulonimbus … storm of heart and sight, feeling of room, even when my babies aren’t here with me.