Now that John has taken over waking up Benjamin our mornings are much more cordial. For some reason he is more conducive to his father sending him into the shower than his mother. Go figure. 

 

I stay downstairs and set up his breakfast. Easy. More than easy. 

 

The other day Ben came into the dining room singing. At first I barely noticed, being focused on the time, and his pills, and making sure there were indeed shoes at the ends of his legs. But gradually I listened, and the sheer sweetness of a man child with facial hair belting out a tune made famous by a green frog struck me as probably magic. He was singing about rainbows, which if you do not happen to be outside looking up go completely unnoticed. Yet they are as evocative of splendor as any mountain, or ribbon of starlings at dusk. 

 

He was amenable to me taking a video of him, not because he is especially prone to being commemorated but because I said I would like to watch it when he is gone. I had never letup long enough to discover that he actually knows all the words, which is more than I can claim, and even navigated some unexpected intervals deftly. His smile at the end made for lovely punctuation. He had sung it well, and felt happy. 

 

This moment could so easily have been lost in the clutter of rushing, and efficiency, and checking off boxes. We have been told to hurry, to plow through each task relentlessly, and some choose to believe it. Look what it's done so far.  

 

But it is my prayer that we can slow down just enough to sense our part in the connection that spans all of our skies.