Listening to my girls in the other room as they act out Frozen. Viola climbs on top of Margaret and sighs,
“The sky’s awake. So I’m awake. So we have to play!”
I wish I could bottle it up.
Sometimes I find myself forgetting the necessary moments of mothering because I am so busy observing the lives they live outside of me. It is funny how as the years pass, those girls become less a part of me and somehow are woven still deeper into the fibers that make up my being. I have never felt like they belonged to me, heavens, how could they? These souls that co-exist with God and the stars and the atoms that make things seem solid. They belong only to themselves. But somehow in the not belonging, they become even more crucial to the framework that holds me together.
Sometimes Viola climbs on top of me to squeal the good news of the day and she reaches out her legs in delight. I grab hold of her little foot and cradle it in the palm of my hand. My little girl that is smaller than the spirit that inhabits her. Over the past few weeks the thought has come unbidden, “What if she is the last? What if there are no more?” The idea frightens and soothes and then I bury my face in her neck.
I find my breath.
Perhaps when it comes to eternal souls there is no right or wrong number. Perhaps, there is only enough. Enough and the promise of time without constraint. Enough and the moments when mortality touches eternity. Enough and a love that consecrates. Enough and the hope of more.