Reasons Like Seasons

"Mommy, watch this!" he yells from across the pool. Jump. Splash. He disappears beneath the surface. One-one-thousand. I remember bringing him home from the hospital, wrapped up tight like a blue baby burrito. Two-one-thousand. On his first birthday, he was running down the sidewalk with Grandpa trying (unsuccessfully) to catch him. Three-one-thousand. When he first started preschool, he cried when I left him there and cried some more when I picked him up. Four-one-thousand. He stared at his baby brother when he was born, wrinkled his face, then asked if he could go home with Noni to watch Netflix. Five-one-thousand. Splash! He shakes his head, erupting from the water. "Mommy, could you see me?" "Yes, baby. Of course I could see you ."

I apply a woman's smell to everything I touch: The aroma of the winter goddess and bright, chocolate February winds. I clothe myself in control and ---,  an awesome holiday for the lips and flesh. But emotional technology I ignore, the extra romance of tears and cleansing. You are my non-qualified vacation, an eclipse of my mental touch, the threat of nightmares in the sea of discontent, and the inappropriate paid observer. But yet, as the glass sunset beacons me from beyond my common wax mind, in the clouds, I find my path just tangent to the darkest hour.

Sometimes, when I see you, I want to hold you forever in my arms; To give love, and to be loved, are the only ideas my mind can comprehend. But other times when I see you, I am almost afraid to touch, afraid that the spark that follows may engulf me in flames. It is then that I just watch, and explore your world as you exhale, the smoke streaming from your lungs the only sign of the fire that burns inside.