He had a sore throat. So I pulled his blanket up around his neck, letting his small eyes peer over the edge of cotton and down feather escape.
I found the top of his head where my kiss wouldn’t get lost, somewhere between his ruffled eyebrow and the skyscrapers of tousled hair. And I let my mother hands pull his blanket around each leg, smoothing the parts of him still wrinkled.
And I followed him with my eyes, until all that remained was the top of his head rising from the back of the couch like a noon day sunset of brunette.
And somewhere a voice.
“Is my throat broken?”
Cave into the muffled insulation of closed eyes. This view from under the blanket, where eyes are made softer by the screen of bright light and the silence of outside voices.
Sometimes we have to let our voice rest.
Let the cavernous hold of time wrap fingers around our words. Let our heart listen again to the deep voice of spirit and wind.
And there’s this shift here, an opening and grafting into some kind of deep reservoir of hope, the hollowed out place that waits to be filled.
“Why does it hurt so much?”
Because somewhere deep inside there is a beautiful song playing,
leaving you breathless in its wake.
And we have to let go, the clutch and swell of some age old idea that got knit between the beautiful weave of your heart, like some kind of random string pulled, left to dangle over an open hole.
We’re given these open wound moments, these glass on the floor moments.
And it feels like a lost breath caught in the net of sorrow. Released.
A hand reaching from beneath the tidal swirl.
And this. Our first breath above water.
And there, inside the net held close, somewhere between eye and heart, found.
This broken winged bird set free.
There is something beautiful caught inside the wind.
Something being made new again.
And it feels like an open mouth horizon breathing a sunrise over these newly calmed seas.
And the day feels fiery and light. Burnt edges still smoldering.
And this reckoning, this place where each wound, each whisper, each small heart is tooled and carved. Remembered.
This is the place where the heart is made new. Again.
You have loved well.
You have spoken grace when the wind’s voice pushed your sail.
You are not broken.
Only worn by the sea mists salty tongue.
And all of the ways we make ourselves small, the wrongs pooled inside the deep crevice holes. Broke open and released. These small waves grown inside the wind’s tuck and white capped kiss.
You are not broken.
You are made new.
He walked into the studio, blanket still wrapped, collecting bits of paper along its tired edge.
“You’ve made something new.”
He held my hand and we named the day, an offering for the patchwork of wide stitches holding us together.
And we listened to the wind.