a thousand little things

I wake up and look around, the sun, three sons, the idea of donuts and a full weekend.

I change sheets and fold towels and boil eggs and butter bread, apply bandaids and pack ice water and launder socks and tell stories. Love is in the little things. A thousand little, little things.

I try to stay connected to their sister in all sorts of small ways too, knowing she is so far gone, knowing I will never stop wishing she were still here. Can love be proven in the letting go?

I get the boys off in opposite directions, to ball practice and a board game gathering and a play date.
Later we attend one of several graduation parties, and I want to say to the mothers who have done the holy work, who have taught their children to smile and say thanks, to pour their own cereal and wash their own sheets, that although I haven't been there yet, my heart has. Sort of. To the place where it swells and breaks at the same time? When children launch away, even the way grown kids are meant to go, the leaving does not feel easy.

What is a mother's work if it is not attaching ourselves to someone through a thousand little, little things, only to let them go?