Tucker comes downstairs counting to see who's awake. I set the hot mug on the side table as he crawls onto my lap. There's only four of us who live in this house, but there used to be six. We're missing five and six now.
There's an exposed beam that runs the length of our kitchen ceiling, rumored to be from a barn built in the 1800s in Delaware county. Tollie points up at it and says "houf."
We walk to the grocery, the boys sharing popcorn and grapes while I push. Near the front of the store are bundles of firewood. Know what that's for, Tollie? Tuck leans back in the stroller to ask.
Houf, he replies, tilting the word up at the end, wondering.
Yes, Tollie, you're right! Those are for kids like us to build our own houses. Mom, can we get some?!
Tucker is slowly building her in the imagination of his brother, her brother. She will reside for eternity in them, their eyes, their smiles, their hearts. The man who forged the spoon and the one who hewn the beam are not really gone. Life obeys the laws of conservation, nothing is ever completely lost. She will exist forever as a story scribbled somewhere on the soul of the world. She will.
Jenni Baby,
ReplyDeleteYou made me cry.
L2A
P.S. I now better understand why I put my name on
e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g I own.
P.P.S. I think you should name your next dog "Houf".
She is. She will.
ReplyDeleteYes, she will.
ReplyDelete