spilled milk

He doesn't always look like God made a smile and built a kid around it.
Sometimes his eyes are enormous dark lakes full of tears. Sometimes his head hangs down, slumped as if his neck quit its full time job.
Seven comes with such a small frame to hold onto so much emotion, to steer it.

I imagine when he's sad or angry or excited or scared he must also feel confused, split seconds between such polarized sentiments. I imagine his moods set to music, notes in the key of sunshine, notes in the key of lightning, notes in the key of the moon.

He is quiet, sulking. I sit down beside him without making actual contact, try to decide whether he wants me to be silent or speak. Wonder how adolescence can already feel upon us. Wait for him to make the first move. He threads his long fingers through mine, measures our hands. His are catching up, but still have room to grow.

I try to communicate my complete faith in his ability to handle things.
I tell him it isn't his job to have bravery the biggest in the room, remind him that being courageous does not mean that you don't ever feel afraid.
I stress that it's okay to fall short, to mess up.  That it's important to try again.
And I tell him it’s pretty much all just spilled milk.
It is, isn't it?

Often I think our love and assurances have filled his cup, but then something happens and a little bit sloshes out. We do our best with the refill process, drop by drop, hoping the spill rate is slower than the flow of the tap.