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Still Room In My Lap

He does not want to leave me. Not ever.

Which is why his arms have pulled my neck to his. And why we are crowded on the brown stool together in the kitchen. The stool I have lost my shins to already six times today. The stool where now I squat to cradle my boy whose legs dangle like branches over my arm. My boys whose heart has not out grown my lap or my kisses and whose tears, whose precious tears cannot comprehend the future. When one day he will leave me. Gladly.

And bound off to school. In state. Or out. And drive home for meals he once loved me to make.

“Fifteen years?” he asks. “Will you leave me in fifteen years?”

And I smile because what he doesn’t know is that I will never leave him.

And so I assure him, “no, son. Not even in fifteen years.” And I press him to me until we are heart to heart, his legs wrapped around my waist, my own knees threatening to snap. And I add, “But you. You may leave mommy one day. And it will be okay.”

He is wiping more tears. And I am holding his head to my neck. Dinner is doing its own thing on the stove. Burning. Sticking. Starting to smoke.

And none of it matters.

None. Of it.

Because my boy is in my arms.

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