This week's moments are stuck in my throat.
Balanced on the insides of my eyes-
holding on only by the surface tension.
The eight year old walked to gymnastics
on her own, for the first time.
The thirteen year old went to Kiev
on his own, for something he loves.
The eight year old came home
sat on my lap, and practiced her English.
The thirteen year old called home
with a broken shoulder, or collarbone,
or something in that general region.
I held the eight year old tight-
and asked Him to hold the thirteen year old.
