Catherine's post struck me. Ricky Moody, do you mind if I use your words to start?
Boys enter the house. First one, then the other. A husband, tall and strong. He has healing hands; he is a father. He works at the hospital, the good one, downtown just off the highway. He is essential personnel, so he doesn't get to take snow days. He has to work weekends. When this boy is home, things are easier, funnier, louder. The other one, my baby. My boy, carried in a car seat, enters the house trailing an arm's length behind daddy. This boy is all baby, but all boy. All spit bubbles and yelling and happy smiles and clear eyes that see right through you, no pretenses or posturing. Both boys are whole that way. Their eyes can't hide anything, so you always know what they want. This one wants time away, that one wants milk. This one wants more money, that one wants milk. This one wants his wife, that one wants his mama. They will keep entering this house, keep growing. One growing up and the other growing older. One will get stronger and the other will age. Boys enter the house, boys enter the house. My boys, both of them. Sometimes early but mostly late, one being carried and one doing the carrying. And me, 28 today, 68 tomorrow. I will keep watch as the house grows and swells, impossible love following them as they go from this house.