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My Boy

I hear him as he rounds the landing on the stairs.  Soft feet without socks.   Feet that are ten hours rested.  Feet that cannot wait to spring or scurry, dart or dash.

I listen to the subtle whirring of his pajama pants as he tiptoes closer.  He doesn’t know I know he’s there.  He picks up speed and his orange hair lifts and falls, the chunk matted sideways pointing behind him like an arrow.

His eyes reach me first. And then his arms.  And in the same second that I am kissing his red cheeks, he curls his legs into my lap like a bowling ball and I hold him close.

All over I hold him.  And there is no resistance.   Just whispers of love for my boy.  My boy who lets me love him.  My boy who needs me to love him.

My boy for whom my heart expanded–ten sizes–before he was even born.

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