He is lost in a book about unicorns. I recognize the posture, the expression, the heady feeling of running through lines of words woven in such a way that bring imaginings to life.
I love watching him read, watching him get lost. And I love HIM- so much, sometimes I think I will bubble over with joy at his affections and idiosyncracies. As my firstborn, it was his pudgy little face which first revealed my own heart to me. Now his long, skinny fingers stitch hearts and flowers from thread and play Scott Joplin pieces on the piano.
Being a mother, to me, means making sure that he knows this love as surely as he knows the sun lights his page. It is part of who we are now- the soil of everything we become. I am so grateful for the miracle and the mystery that is Max.
