Weld

My children smell like sweat, pumpkin cake, and lavender baby wash. They are so wild awake; I swim in the thunderous chaos of them, a whirlpool of colors, laughter, crying, wrestling, dancing, their hunger and thirst, their untenable energy. They totter always on the cusp of danger, sucking in life and teaching me to cast my caution into their web of imagination, captive and captivated.

Sometimes they get hurt, their bodies or their hearts. I can protect them intermittently, but more often, I console. Who are these sparklers? How they exhaust me and delight me. The night comes, and one fights, “Let me read more- I can always sleep.” One cannot fight; he is flung across the covers sideways, one leg in, one out before I can turn off the light. His breathing is soft, quiet. The baby snores. Not loud, boisterous snores, but butterfly grunts and whispers. He sometimes giggles in his sleep. The big boy has conversations. His vivid day drifts into his night. I hear fragments of his joy or his fear, but that is quiet, too. This time is so short. Please let me weld it into my memory so I will not forget the smell of them, their sounds, and their perfect imperfections. Let me look back at all this swimming and see the miracle of them.