In a Suburb of the Soul

I watched my two girls play in the backyard while I scrubbed soiled dishes. I watched them through my small kitchen window. My eldest, catching me spying, decided to improvise a play. The toddler, having no idea what a play is, devotedly and obediently looked to big sissy for stage direction. And mostly she just emulated her older sister’s every move. Pure idolization.

As often it does, my heart swelled at the sight of them.

At the same time I gave thought to the countless throngs of suburban mothers who have similarly watched their beautiful children at play through kitchen windows – since the dawn of the suburbs themselves – and it may sound very common, and it may seem ever so unspectacular, but that’s where you are mistaken.

Because it was, and is, extraordinary. It was singularly magical and whole.

And in that moment I knew we’d be okay, no matter how it rings of cliché (or attempts to rhyme). We’ll make it, just the three of us, while he’s away. And I can only hope these happy days, these shining moments that come alive in things like kitchen windows, take shape someplace eternal and scared. That, as they say, wouldn’t suck.

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