I won't lie: things have been a little difficult and strange and sad the past two months. It's been hard to take much joy in the things I usually love, things like writing, taking pictures, cooking. My greatest source of joy, my unflagging constant, has been the intense, overwhelming gratitude I feel for Ellie and James and the way they fill up my days, my life, no matter what.
Some afternoons, when the spring light is perfect and the big bed is messy and unmade and the babies want to jump, my life looks like this:
I watch them, taking their picture as they wrestle and kiss and embrace and laugh, doing everything in my power to save the moment for a time when they are old and I am older and perhaps our hearts aren't overflowing with this kind of easy affection, this innocent, guileless intimacy.
I watch them and think, stay here with me and I will never hurt you. It is a hard, lean, cruel world but it is safe in here, on the big bed, where heartache can never touch us.
I watch them play until my chest feels so full it will burst, so fulfilled by something so simple that I don't even recognize myself. This is a full life, I think. And I can scarcely bear it.
And now, as I type this, it occurs to me: that was kind of a rough transition from the geriatric vibrators, wasn't it? Sorry about that. (And also: that's what she said.)