Late in the evening before father's day, after our son had finally settled to his rest, I watched Susan slip quietly into her own slumber. To watch the stress she carries melt away, as she let go, was its own sort of gift.
I spend many days watching the two of them in their dance; he testing every boundary, and she weaving a tapestry of patience and safety for him. It is these quiet moments between their needs that I find my own repose. I reflected further upon my role as a father, as a husband, as the me I have found in both and the me I am in these unobserved moments, when I can let go of my own spell that I weave.
I spend many days watching the two of them in their dance; he testing every boundary, and she weaving a tapestry of patience and safety for him. It is these quiet moments between their needs that I find my own repose. I reflected further upon my role as a father, as a husband, as the me I have found in both and the me I am in these unobserved moments, when I can let go of my own spell that I weave.
Cool clouds settle upon the evening; a wispy blanket for the moon,
whilst peeping stars flash symphonic in a quickly fading sky.
And you slumber, again spent by the patient spell you have woven.
Beside, our son wrestles with fancies, and promises of fresh hewn grass.
On the morrow, you will wake and likely wish me well,
never realizing the gift you have already given in your silent sleep;
that peace glimpsed upon your brow.
What wonders you wear, when you dream.
and I wonder, do I trip as often there?
Or is that the place where grace finds my tongue?
One can hope. One can hope.
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