to keep going

On Saturday I woke up with another walk inside me and left the house before sipping coffee. I took off in the direction of Cambridge on purpose, toward the cathedral of Bradford pears.

When I got home Tuck didn't even look up from the crossword puzzle, cozy in the mauve arm chair, to ask: Would "sacred text" be gospel?

Yesterday the boys taught me the word graupel, using it based purely on the sound the hominy snow made hitting the windows.

We tried a new recipe for dinner, chicken parm meatballs, a combination of things everyone can agree on, mostly because melted cheese. 

At one point Hank sat by the back door, clicking an old cattle counter. He called out numbers like two twenty seven and, later, eight hundred exactly. I feel eager to keep going, he said, Do you?

We attended Tuck's jazz concert at the Lincoln Theater and realized he's the youngest student in the youth program. I admired the swing rhythms and the improvisation, the more adventurous melodies.

And I admired him. That kind of spontaneity runs right up against my impulse to know exactly what's next, to try to control it.

I went to church alone this morning. Mostly because I was intrigued by the invitation to look at LGBTQ+ inclusion, but also because I don’t want church to feel like a winter coat I’m trying to put on the boys, like C’mon, you’re gonna need this.

It sounds like they huddled around Andy in the kitchen instead, learning the secrets of all day chili.

They smell the cinnamon and feel the music and admire the trees. The boys know as well as I do there are maps and magic answers all around us, every day.