red Texas dirt caked to my shin mixed with coconut oil and sweat
my cheeks and one shoulder turned pink by a sun I'd only just become reacquainted with.
and among the freshly mowed weeds scattered sparsely within the confines of a chain link fence
runs a little boy, now not so little, who's freckles flash like a million sparks across his button nose
squeals and laughter and creaks from an old metal swing
a rowdy older brother
telling stories with his hands and laughing over flames and smoke caressed meat.
I'm reminded why I've always looked up to him even when I started towering over him
a new hipster sister, cute, short, giggly. Sarcastic and always on the move.
I love her already.
a brand new room and brand new bed to tuck my too grown baby into at the end of every day.
we read Shel Silverstein poems and I sing all of our old songs, then he makes up new ones.
Usually about love and he makes a fist and closes his eyes while I try not to giggle aloud.
then I lay my own head on my own bed and drift into dreams filled with images from the books I've recently devoured.
And everything is alright.
