Nepenthe

I heard it on television, some time ago.  It was a national spelling bee word, and it's rolled around in my head for awhile.  When the contestant asked for the definition, I learned it meant solace from grief.  Its origins are Greek, the word mentioned in ancient literature and mythology as a "drug of forgetfulness."
I am aware of my own medicine for sorrow.  He is literally a little anti-depressant. He jumps on her bed, tosses pillows and burrows beneath quilts, where she can only lie still.  He flips the light switch on and off, calls out light and dark, watches the sparkling crystals spin, when she is silent and sees black.  He pulls books off her shelf, scatters dolls on the floor, plays with toys that otherwise sit mocking, unemployed.
I'm not sure whether sadness is an elected condition, but choosing happiness is often hard.  I choose it over and over, hoping it will become habit.  I look for ways to alleviate heartache and I always find one in him.  Chasing away the sad is a big responsibility for such a small person.  His opiate effect lets me forget for a moment though.  And I'm pretty sure he'll always help me remember, too.

JEB

Pricey

Some pictures are worth more than a thousand words...

JEB

Loose Leaf

The leaves on the trees are yellow and brown,
yellow and brown, yellow and brown.
The leaves on the trees are yellow and brown,
all through the town.

 JEB

Here is the Church

Nothing Short

We've got this perfect Tucker of the saggy diaper and the multiple word strings, of the finicky food choices and the inclination to dismantle everything, of the happy heart and the tiny tantrums. Watching him, our second, typical child, pass through infancy and breeze through toddlerhood feels nothing short of miraculous.

 JEB

Tense

Golden moons glow around her pupils, eyes that saw a world turn dim and hopeless.  Her smile, unreserved, flashes and my own muscles relax.  She's quiet, but when I lean in close -when I listen with the ear of my heart- the message resounds, deeper than words.   

I want more than anything to know her, to understand all of who she would have been, to crawl under her flesh and feel her heart beating in my own chest, to invite her thoughts to run through my mind.  Living where goodbyes loom, I'm still conjugating her fate in the conditional tense – if she lived, if she grew up, grew breasts, grew her own family, if she trudged off toward her own horizon.  If.

No one suggests it's our fault, but our inability to stop it feels like our chief failure as parents.

The history of family is encoded and inscribed in her little frame though, giving all of her parts voice to speak.  And even the smallest chat the language of love.  Unconditional.

JEB

He Has

An ornery streak. 
Irresistible eyes. 
Our hearts around his finger.

Peek-a-boo, through a hole in a sign at the park.

JEB