Braids are right today. Braids are for the warmth, for the beauty, for the quick look of together when little else is. Braids because I can and will and do and feel young and alive.

Braids – a suit for here and now. This office of diapers, meals, blanket tents, vet clinics for exotic animals and reading books about a family of mice that can’t catch their train, a little boy’s first hair cut, a to serious monster that thinks laughter is bad, and birds. Always birds.

They collect four feathers today – at least. Well, that doesn’t include the tail feathers that Tess keeps losing to George Wilder’s quick grabs. Amelia says the little gray ones are from a gold finch. Then they trade some more before heading out to build a sand castle and play school. How do they even know how to “play school”?

We are barefoot. The sheep bask in the sun. The bees visit the dandelions and rosemary. We watch their little legs collect the pollen.

We are satisfied. Until lunch.

William wants his lunch after a sweet friend brings us pizza knowing that would be the perfect relief while George is gone. He suckles sweetly with his hand tightly holding on to my black jacket – part of the suit – and cooing. He takes his time. No gulping or flailing. His noises tell me he is content. Perfectly pacified.

George. He is watched today – an interview. They watch his every move just like I watch every move William makes. I now know his cries. His hunger cry. His tired cry. His annoyed one. Will they know George’s intensity? Will they know his pleasure for learning – his passion for teaching? Will they know it the way that someone who believes in someone knows?

I believe in him. I believe in my William and George Wilder and Amelia. And we are satisfied.


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