Angel, angel, angel. Angel with your hands around my neck. Angel with your weight on my shoulders. Angel in silence. Angel in ecstasy. Swing high; feel the wind in your eyelashes and the sun on your belly. Feel gravity pulling your bones down and backwards. Angel, angel. Purring in the sun. The bliss of a tidy home — of tables wiped and closets unstuffed. The solace of a quiet child, relaxed and listening to a parent’s breath. Bliss. The merit of an unspoiled forest; tickled leaves in the wind. The inhalation of trust. We exhale uncertainty. The medicine of a mother’s voice, unsullied. Pure. A cedar tree’s reflection on the wall. Noticing details. No screens. Angel, angel, angel. The sensation of holding my baby again. The awareness that growth brings both losses and gains. The grieving. The grief. Tears on a man’s cheek, ruddy and sharp with cut hairs. Daddy, did you shave your beard? The noticing. The trust. Implicit to start, then easily lost. Regained with certainty at first, then as it wanes, the recognition of fault. Of failure. Of grief. Intuitive love, implicit trust. Why is it so easy to damage the cord that runs between families; between lovers? To sever is difficult, but to create irreparable scars? Angel, angel. It’s too easy. Angel. Hold me. Speak to me with your weight.
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Beautiful!