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  • Writer's pictureKalan

A Beautiful Thing to Behold

Each and every morning I awake before the house. Never having had enough sleep, eyes still so heavy, but I know there is no point in trying any longer. The day is here. The faded purple light barely peeking through the gaps in the blinds tells me as much. All is quiet, the world around me comfortably dark. The breath of small lungs snuggled next to me is heavy. I look at this precious thing I call my child, place my lips on her messy hair, breathe her in, and then I sneak out quietly. Eyes half closed as I await the only thing that matters in the morning- coffee. But when my cup is hot, and the cream is perfect, I open the door and find my place outside. I greet the world in her perfect morning light.

I hear them first. They sing to me in these early hours. I hear their call, their song to life. Wake up, for the sun, she is here, they say. Sleep no more, for today is your gift. I watch them fly from branch to branch, straight like an arrow as they land on their safe spot. The birds of the sky. To have wings as they do. To fly in the breeze, high above the ground. To take flight, soar wide. How I envy them; I always have.

The leaves on the trees dance in the breeze. They sway softly around me. What is the song they move to? I think sometimes if I close my eyes and stretch my heart outside of itself I hear it too. I move slightly to their quiet song. I clothe myself in their presence, breathe in the very life they give. The oxygen that sustains.

They watch from high the life we live, they hear our whispers. They catch our screams. They look down in boldness, never too shy to turn away. They are beautiful in their towering height and mighty strength for each and every year they fall and are stripped bare, but each and every year they return. Each and every year they grow new life and cover themselves with such beauty, what was dead brought back to life. Somehow, I know exactly their story. They are lovely in their rising. They are mesmerizing in their strength. Somehow, after each fall they return, only to reach closer to the sky.

Soon I will hear a door crack open and see a head peek out. “Hey mom”. It will be my blonde headed little boy. The one that changed me forever. Never sleeping past the rising of the sun, this child. He is almost as tall as I am now. These early mornings are the only time I can convince him to hug me still. After I beg, he will crawl on my lap- just for a few seconds. But when he does I wrap him up completely in my arms and lay my ear to his back, listen to the life in his lungs and soak up every piece of that brave child. Soon his brother will open the door. He comes to me with ease, that one. Hair messy, eyes of wonder, heart so big you can catch it. I love them so, my boys. Their sister- the force to be reckoned with- she will find us last bringing with her the wind like a tornado and wrapping us all in it. Hair all over the place, ready for food. How the 3 of us cherish that little girl.

And just like that, we will be off. The birds still singing. The leaves still swaying. My heart still taken. Life given to us once again, a beautiful thing to behold.


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