He belly laughs on a September day and I record it on my phone. Just Incase.
I see a video of a maker who takes a strand of hair and weaves it into a sacred piece, and then weep at the thought of needing such a thing.
I contemplate cutting a little tendril while he sleeps, tucking it away, Just in case.
but then I remember: it'll all fall out soon and I'll have plenty to keep.
My husband laughs at the weirdness of mothers who keep their children's teeth. And I laughed too. But I get it today. If I can't have him breathing, I can hold bones that once belonged to the same mouth that laughed belly laughs.
Except he's too young for that. He hasn't even lost any baby teeth.
And so instead of a box hidden with teeth, my ribs shake with pre-emptive grief. I weep at the wrongness of it all and yet the rightness of it all. Why us? Why not us?
I hold his small face and smell his little breath and beg my God to please, please, please....
A million other words finish that sentence, all a plea:
To not need to re-watch
a video of a boy belly-laughing in September
from grief.
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