Summer

"If there was a weed as big as me, it would be REALLY hard to pull." Jack's arm tucked around my neck, I crane to see his face.

"Yup."

"But if it was a big as you it would be bigger." He nods his head. "Yeah. But a weed as big as Daddy would be BIGGER 'cause he's as BIG as God," the boy squinches up one eye, "except not as much, 'cause God is the BIGGEST."






It's bedtime. The children wriggle and squirm in bed, reach for books and pillows, blankies, Mommy. I lean down cheek to cheek and whisper love to them. Small hands behind my neck, the day spills out in tales of weeds, grass nests and the way they filled the tunnel out back with more and more grass. And how Lucy learned to pump on the swings, sort of. They mixed mint water and picked raspberries.






Lulie. She sucks her thumb. She rubs the ends of my hair, folds them in blankie's favorite corner. Then, she smells and smells blankie. And me. And sucks her thumb, breathes in. She traces my chin and lips, watches my eyes, then cries when I leave.

Jack slips out of bed, hugs the girl and croons, "Oh, oh, oh." He pads back to bed, and I slip down the hall. Another day laid to rest.