Note the time stamp...
The family is safe abed. I'll join them soon. The wife takes care of a seventeen year old six month old baby. She cried on me some tonight. We are so blessed with our nine year old, who brightens up a room like a Klieg Light, and a six year old girl who is, well, let's face it, gifted.
As are we.
The wife sings to the boy, the broken one, and he smiles, and responds. Seventeen years old. A baby, never to be a man, or even a boy. His family, strong, yet broken, and they don't even know it.
How do you live with that? Well, you just do. Is all. You just do. Make do. Life hands you lemons, you say 'thank you', put them in the fridge, and... what. Survive?
Tears flow freely down my face, things look blurry. I am spell-checking like mad. Go, kneel, now, beside your children's beds, sniff them, breathe them in, hover over their mouth, sip in that warm hamster smell.
Your days are numbered. Their days are numbered. Lick them like a stamp, soak them up like a treasured scent, draw them in charcoal and pastel and ink and oil, and draw them to you and into you, and stop hugging just before the bones crack, but let them feel your desperate need, your desire, something that a Polaroid can never provide either of you, thirty years from now, but today...
You both made Soul Angels together, laying there, flapping like idiots, goofy grins akimbo, and...
An electric blue arc flashed across the decades, forward and pastward, and you burned a vibrant image of love and goodness into the very fabric of time, your own Shroud of...you.
Cry, or cry not.
If not, I envy you, more than you know.