layer

I scoop Ben up and bring him, all limp and doll-like, into my bed, and we wrap around each other under heavy flannel and quilts. I love you mama all slurry in half-sleep. I love you too baby. By the morning, Evan has climbed in too and we triple-spoon and talk about girls, brussels sprouts, and when Evan's comic book, one of dozens, will be published. GOD, he says, sighing. Publishers.

He is eight years old tomorrow.

+++

Bumping up against ghosts of previous selves in the village, and the grappling. Skeptical that a few moments of quiet can make a dent. All that can't be said. So I keep bumping, and waiting, and trying harder to know less. And whenever I can, I scoop.