At the Window

He says,
“Mom, come here, Mom,
come here a second, Mom.
Look out the window.  D’you hear that?
Bird?  D’you hear that bird, owl?  Shhh, listen.”

Then he tells me,
“Your lap, Mom.  I want to sit on your lap, Mom.
Fall asleep on you.  Ok?”

I say,
“Yes, coming.  Just a moment.
I see, yes, I hear it.  Mourning dove, I think.”

Then I tell him,
“Ok, sure, yes, come on.
Ok.  I love you, too.”

And I listen to every word he ever tells me,
over and over and
again.  And I think about being held,
and always being held, about 
tenderness and constancy,
and fear, and having someone to run to.

And I think about blessings, and being blessed.