I hold chicks every day. I am typing one handed because even now there are a pair of Silkies in my palm. The smallest is two days old and the other is twice that.  They have spent time in the coop with six other chicks, three mamas, a half grown named Oliver, and one ostentatious rooster. But this morning the littlest seemed lost, standing apart from the preening and pecking flock. So I scooped them up and brought them inside. The difference in size between them and the week olds is dramatic. When the rooster rumbles by he sometimes tramples the wee ones, not out of spite but because they are down by his five toed, feathered feet and his focused attention is on scanning the horizon for foxes. 

The slightly older one could probably hold her own outside. But bringing in one tiny bird to the isolation box in the dining room seems harsh. Chickens are not introverts. One time I tried to buy a single chick and the lady at the feed store refused. 

"It will be too lonely." 

I explained that it was to keep another single chick company and then she agreed. 

The other day I wrote a story about my struggles with Benjamin. I have a friend who also aches over the roller coaster of a special needs child and she said it softened her morning to think that I was skirmishing too, a few hundred miles away. 

This week at marriage group we talked about forgiveness. One husband admitted that he likes to be right. He made an insightful comment about the distinction between being sorry that he was wrong, and regretting hurting his wife. Another husband echoed the experience. Then a third. 

The wives looked at each other with solidarity. The sense of being alone parted, like clouds after a summer rain.