White Noise

What does it feel like to laugh and to see a first smile and to see the early morning sunshine on bedroom curtains? These things with a child that knows nothing more than his parent's love and faces and voices and smells and touch? I know. It feels like forever in a bottle. Like the note you place in and cast to sea. To cast and know there is a journey and seasons and an end which you will not know the day it happens. Something so fast yet the beginning of a road whose end feels nowhere near.

It feels like wanting to encapsulate time and stop it. Stop it right here. To do today over and over and over and over sounds like some blissful form of eternity; if only it were with the Lord, too. To see my child was to feel as if my very DNA had been rewritten. I feel as if some cauterized portions of my being have begun to grow fresh again. In a sense, due to loss and tragedy those parts of me that died then are now as a budding spring with life in ways I had not expected.

White noise in a quiet place or a front porch with a slow swing or a back door with fallen leaves or a low spot with the right view or a short walk under the pine tree height or another day that already feels like too few.

White noise and another night.